


Here Tomorrow Gone Today

by tari_roo



Series: Here Tomorrow, Gone Today [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Supernatural
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the <i>Hammond.</i> Shep POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And if I owned SPN, there would be less shirt wearing entirely. 

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond._ Shep POV.

Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none. 

 

Sheppard stalked out of the _Hammond_ ’s canteen, tossing the empty paper cup into the recycler. The coffee might taste like mud, but at least it was caffeine. He pushed back at the exhaustion tugging on his coat tails, threatening to trip him up, too many days with too little sleep and too much action. Running a ragged hand through his long hair, making it stand up on end more than usual, John made his way to the 302 bay, already running through the mission plan for the 12th time. Fuel was scarce and his usual ship, the one that needed expert handling had been making weird sounds when he landed, and he knew there was a good chance a vital system could crap out on him when he least needed it to, like in the heat of a dog fight but there was no time to fix it himself and certainly no spare mechanics for a lowly 302, even if it was his.

So, it took John half a beat to take in the state of his 302 and the full implications, as he turned the corner into the hanger and saw the guts and innards of his ship scattered all over the deck.

“What in the hell?”

There were a pair of boots, worn and dirty, like everything was, sticking out the bottom of the 302, and a bitten off curse as an errant bolt, nut or screw – random metal piece was tossed out and rolled along the deck towards him. 

Already on the edge, pushed past his limits, John growled, strode over and kicked at the nearest boot and yelled, “What the hell are you doing to my ship?”

The pair of boots ignored him, and did not scurry out to reveal the face of the soon to be dead ‘I don’t care how scarce they are’ mechanic. Instead a low drawl echoed dully from the 302, “Fixing it, moron. What’s it look like.”

Sheppard nearly said, nearly – ‘It doesn’t need...’ but he knew damn well that it did, so instead he yelled, “I don’t frigging have the time for this – I need to be in the air in... 3 minutes.”

“Then you better radio in and tell ‘em you’re going be 2 minutes late – I’m almost done.”

Staring at the mess of parts and pieces around him, John growled again, feeling his heart rate increase in response. “The hell you are and the hell I am! Just .. put it all – damnit who the hell are you?”

There was a loud clang, another curse and then, “Look dude, the more you keep yakking at me the more time this is gonna take, so stow it, go stand somewhere and look pretty, and I’ll fix your rust bucket.”

Sheppard opened his mouth to reply, had too many options, most of them seasoned by time well spent with Marines and settled for, “Screw that.”He stepped forward, bent down to drag the guy out from under the ship and was he was on sort of elevated skate board?

“Touch me and die, man.”

Not usually one to listen to idle threats, Sheppard was spared the necessity of beating the crap out of him when his ear wig bzzed and he taped it automatically. “Sheppard.”

“ _Colonel, your mission is delayed for ... ten minutes. The Apollo hasn’t jumped in yet but confirms arrival in 7 minutes.”_

 _“_ Understood.” Sheppard tapped off and scowled down at the elevated boots and legs.

“See, plenty of time. Now back off.” Instead Sheppard kicked the closest boot and then backed off, and paced around the innards of his ship.

And fortunately, the guy was only 5 minutes and soon scooted out from under the ship, his long legs and torso dangling off the elevated board. Smeared with grease and dirt and definitely not in an airman’s uniform, the idiot messing with his ship sat up and said, “Good to go.”

Waving at the array of parts and what he assumed were miscellaneous necessities, Sheppard snarled, “Really? And these were what... party favours?”

The guy shook his head, and said, “Nah – spare parts, redundant systems and dead weight. She’ll run like a dream now.”

“Or kill me.”

“Maybe.”

Sheppard couldn’t help it he stepped over to his girl and stuck his head under the hood so to speak but couldn’t see anything wrong, not he’d knew what to look for anyway. It’d take him a while to figure it out, and he could but it was the while part that had kept him from tinkering. That and Rodney’s vocal insistence that he not. 

The mechanic was picking up all the scattered parts, including the errant bolt that had rolled off and Sheppard snapped, “So what cannibalise my ship so that when I drop of out the sky, you’ll still have something to work with?”

“Its space, you don’t drop out of nothing, and yeah, the parts of one will save the lives of many and no, you won’t die.”

The guy barely looked up, hardly seemed fazed at all by the towering fury looming over him and John snarled, “Just who the hell are you anyway? And who authorised you to tear my ship apart?”

Shrugging, the guy said loudly, “Dude with the clipboard pointed me at your bird and said fix it. So I fixed it. You could say thank you.”

“Dude with the ... Rodney? Rodney sent you?”

He looked up at Sheppard, met his gaze with calm but tired eyes and said, “Rude and obnoxious, could use a mainline of caffeine and abrasive as hell?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes, Rodney sent me.”

Momentarily derailed, uncertain as to why Rodney would send ‘this’ guy but certain that Rodney would only send someone who knew what they were doing to mess around the battered 302s, John stammered for the umpteenth time, “Who the hell are you?”

Standing up, his tools and spare parts stowed away in a tatty duffle, the guy sighed, “Dean Winchester. Who, might I add, did not expect the world to end like this and did not expect to become a grease monkey on a frigging space ship. You’re welcome.”

And with that, he was gone and John had _Control_ in his ear barking orders to go go go. So he went.

The next time John Sheppard saw Dean Winchester, it was on the hangar bay of the _Deadalus_. He’d had to land there instead _the Hammond_ when the Fleet bugged out, and there was a scramble to get aboard the nearest ship. Winchester was leaning into the engine of a 302, cursing, more parts strewn around him.

For some reason, the sight amused him this time, and it may have been as a result of the lingering adrenalin, but John ambled over and said loudly, “Gutting another ship I see.”

“Improving. Go away.”

“Rodney’s rubbing off on you, I see.”

From the belly of the ship came a snort and “More like plotting my imminent death. So unless you’re a pilot who’s miraculously learned how to fix their own damned ship, back off.”

Smiling a little, John did just that, calling over his shoulder, “My bird flew great – thanks!”

There was a muttered, ‘whatever’ behind him.

After that John saw Winchester often, usually in the hangar bay of one of the 303s, usually in the middle of mending a 302 and once arguing with Zelenka near a Jumper. They passed each other once or twice coming out of and into a canteen, and John nodded while Winchester ignored him. 

The next time he actually got to speak to the guy again was weeks after the last time and it mostly had to do with the fact that Winchester was asleep inside his 302. 

The guy looked completely done in, utterly exhausted and he was boneless in the cockpit, head slumped back like he’d closed his eyes briefly and then ... passed out. Sheppard was strangely reluctant to disturb him, well aware of just how tired everyone was. Being on the run, under constant attack was blindingly exhausting and fatigue was turning everyone into harder, meaner versions of themselves. But unfortunately, he had a CAP to run, and for that, he needed his bird.

“Hey, Winchester! She good to go?”

Winchester sat up with a start, nearly bashing his head on the edge of the canopy and mumbled, “’m up. ‘m up.”

He turned bleary, blood shot eyes on Sheppard and said, “What time is it?”

“00h30.”

Winchester groaned, and started to haul himself out of the 302, “Damn. I missed my beam back to the Apollo. Crap...”

He began pulling out his tools and loading them in the duffle, stopped, double checked whatever he’d been doing in the cockpit and then scrambled down the ladder. “You’re good to go, man.”

“Thanks.” Winchester actually stopped at that, as if he was ... surprised and said, “What?”

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

Perplexed and maybe a little pissed, Winchester tossed his duffle over his shoulder and stalked off, shouting, “Whatever, dude.”

And then, the next time John Sheppard crossed paths with Dean Winchester, it was by design and not in person. 

He’d managed to snag Rodney’s maintenance schedule during a brief down time in hyperspace, had boggled at the long and extensive list, and noted the number of non-military, non-familiar scientist names on the list, one of which being Dean Winchester. Zelenka, also in a brief down time had confirmed that they’d asked among the civilian refugees for people with technical skills to come forward, had gone back for mechanics and then for anyone willing to learn. There was so much to fix and too few hands to do it. Running a rag tag fleet of refugees and exhausted military officers was proving to be a lot harder than even Jack O’Neill imagined. 

The schedule for priority fixes though was insane. The mechanics Rodney, Carter and Novak deemed competent enough to work on military ships and systems were few, and rostered almost 24-7. And in some cases double booked on different ships. Carefully, deliberately, Sheppard began reassigning the priorities, moving his ship off immediate and regular checking, benching a few more 302s whose pilots were in the infirmary or morgue and then scheduling down time for the mechanics, especially Dean Winchester. They had more ships than pilots at the moment, and if their plans, the immediate ones, came to fruition, everyone would be able to breath, calm down again – for a while.

When Rodney discovered the changes, and then found the time to actually track Sheppard down, who had simply turned off his radio whenever Rodney chirped in to launch a tirade, it was t-minus 13 minutes to the big push. As a result, the conversation had been brief for Rodney and ignored by Sheppard, who had just slapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “Keep the porch light turned on.”

“And no damn suicide runs!” was Rodney’s parting rejoinder.

By the time the Fleet regrouped in the Milky Way, over a world without a Stargate but plenty of supplies of fresh water and food, it was battered, exhausted and triumphant. The plan had worked, the causalities had been minimal and they would have time to breath... maybe even come up with a plan that didn’t consist of ways of just keeping the Ori off their backs and escaping to fight again. Maybe come up with a plan to attack, to take back their homes. 

There was a party on the planet, an actual barbeque and when John materialised on the surface, he went in search of Teyla and Ronon. The ships carrying the civilian refugees and non-combatants had been in orbit for weeks and they already had a small settlement on the rise, crops planted and hopes established. He nodded at Mitchell and Teal’c, both of whom were plying Carter with the local moonshine, which she was refusing – mostly by giving it to a very drunk Jackson. Rodney was due in the next transport shuttle, the Apollo’s transporter beam hit during the mission. 

Eyes peeled for his friends who he had not seen in weeks, Sheppard spotted one familiar face and smiled. Dean Winchester was slouched against an improvised chair – a log, a tin cup of something (moonshine) in hand and was laughing at something a tall, hell massive guy was saying. He looked dead tired, as usual, but more at ease and the obvious affection and relief was apparent on both faces. Someone yelled, “Winchester!” and both men looked around, and waved at someone.

Brothers? Something else? John shrugged and pushed it aside when he spotted Ronon and was instantly barrelled into by a tiny male version of Teyla. “Shep!”

“Hey, Torren.” Teyla’s smile was broad even as her eyes sparkled with unshed tears and there was no escaping Ronon’s hug. “You made it, John.”

“Yeah. Yeah we did.”

*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n*s*p*n

[Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14123.html)

[Part 1](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/11780.html)   [Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14123.html)    [Part 3](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14866.html)   [Part 4](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/19585.html)  [Part 5 ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/26624.html) 

I may continue, I may not. Kinda like the one shotness . J

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_. Shep POV.

One second Sheppard was banking left, weapons’ fire tracing a vicious vector on a Death Glider and the next he was spinning out of control, atmosphere venting, yoke not responding, computer screaming at him. The impact, if it had been an impact, barely registered and all John could do was stare at his hands gripping the stick like it was a piece of him and trying, trying, trying to pull up. The second impact was a cannon ball of a concussion and Sheppard had a split second thought of ‘Shit!’ before white enveloped his gaze, oh so familiar streaks and hazes and suddenly there were bright lights and voices shouting and he wasn’t falling anymore, wasn’t exploding.

“Got him!”

“Move, move, move.”

“We’re bugging out! Sheppard’s the last. Now!”

The all too familiar sensation of a ship jumping into hyperspace abruptly relaxed him and then there were hands on him, faces and voices all around. “Pulse is erratic”

“Bleeding here”

“Pupil reaction sluggish.”

“Breath sounds... hell if I know.”

“Lift!”

It was like floating through the air on clouds of pain and hellfire and Sheppard bit off the scream as they unceremoniously transferred him onto a gurney.

“Get him to the infirmary, stat. Next one.”

Motion and overhead lights passing like a train on steroids, and John felt his all too brief lunch lurch. “No, no, no, dude. No hurling, just keep breathing.”

There was only one voice now, a deep male voice, and through the pain narrowing his vision to things only of immediate importance, like breathing and not screaming, Sheppard squinted up at a... frigging giant. A friendly giant though, judging by the broad smile, the upside down smile. “Hey, hey. Nearly there.”

And a truthful giant it seemed, because soon there were familiar voices, Carson and nurses who he was ashamed to admit he mixed up and could never tell apart. “Colonel, what have you done to yourself this time?”

“Playing catch with the Ori, Doc. They cheat...using Death Gilders now.”

“They cheat like the devil, son. Right, let’s see whats what.”

And this was why he loved Carson, frigging loved him, the man knew just what the right dose of morphine was and although there were way too many hands and way too much pressure and discomfort, Sheppard didn’t care because it was Carson and there were drugs... good drugs.

By the time he was able to peel his eyes open, gasp like a mummy in a desert, he was a floating head on a cloud of morphine with a desperate thirst. “Here you go.”

Manna from heaven, nectar of Gods! Slivers of blessed ice pressed on his lips and John squinted enough to bring the heavenly nymph into focus and realise it was a heavenly nympho... no that’s not right, nympher... ew, nymphman?

“Say what?”

“Nuth’n. Fanks.”

“Welcome.” It was the Truth Friendly Giant and man alive, they had to be seriously short on nurses if they were raiding the marines again. Although the Ice Supply Giant really didn’t have a regulation haircut, and while the Airforce might be overlooking such things right now or in his case, always had, the Marines were sticklers for that type of thing.

Sheppard wasn’t the only patient in the infirmary, not after that last ambush. The CAP had served its purpose yet again and saved the Combat Fleet’s collective asses, but John had seen two 302s go down and his bird was toast. Still, they had more planes than pilots these days.

He was going to miss his 302. It might not have been a jumper, but it’d pulled him through a lot of scrapes and the thought of its wreckage lying lost and alone in space brought on a wave of unexpected melancholy. Must be the drugs.

And perhaps it was a combination of thoughts on his lost bird and the drugs but when the Giant Nurse returned, John squinted, then squinted again and croaked, “Winchester?”

Great bushy eyebrows of surprise climbed into his hairline and the Giant said, “You know me?”

But it was falling into place now, the last time they’d met up with the Civilian Fleet, moonshine from the Engineer’s still, hot and raw in his stomach and seeing Winchester with ... another Winchester?

“Mechanic... Dean.” Apparently complete sentences were still beyond him, but interpretation of garbled efforts was on this Winchester’s skill sheet so he said, “Oh, yeah. You probably know Dean, Colonel Sheppard. He mention me?”

“Nah. Shindig... planetside.”

Quick on the uptake, Winchester the Giant Nurse nodded again and said, “Yeah, I was with the Civilians before getting rotated onto Combat.”

“Nurse?”

“Now, yes. Before, no.”

No one really talked about Before – before the attack, before running for their lives, before anything. Sheppard nodded absently, realising he was probably nodding like an absent minded, high on drugs person and mumbled, “Be all you... can be.”

“Thought that was the Army.”

“Smartass.”

sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn

Days, weeks, months later – ok probably only hours later, John awoke feeling overly warm, overly sensitive and aching in places he really didn’t want to think about. The Infirmary on the Apollo was quiet, hushed, so it was probably late, in the dead end shift. The lights were low, the privacy curtains drawn, the now oh so familiar hum of a ship in hyperspace thrumming through him.

There was a soft click, like the sound of metal on clothe-covered metal and soft voices beyond the curtains. Straining a little, the sound of blood pounding in his ears, John eventually picked out distant voices that were probably pretty close.

“What the hell, Dean? Don’t they have an infirmary on the Hammond?”

“Shut up, Samantha and keep sewing.”

The names helped, the voices too unfamiliar but John could picture the scene. His irritable, civilian mechanic sitting on a gurney, his oversized brother stitching something up.

“It’s not like they don’t have perfectly good nurses over there... hell judging by the scuttlebutt half of them are taking bets on who gets to tap your ass. Is that it? Too much pressure?”

“Can it, cupcake.”

“Dean, you are frigging exhausted, I’ve seen corpses with more colour than you.”

“We’re in space, moron.”

Ah, maybe it was time to check Rodney’s maintenance schedule again. The guy had a tendency to assume everyone on his staff worked all shifts, even rest days and survived on stims and caffeine. 

“No, I think you’re hiding from Dr Lamb, that’s why you conned Mark into beaming you over to me. She’d take one look at you and bench your ass.”

“Bite me, Sam.”

“No, no, you’re going to lose more than a damn finger next time, Dean. You are not the only friggin mechanic on the Hammond, hell the Fleet.”

Giant Nurse Sam sounded petulant and stern at the same time. For half a second John wondered who was the older brother and then decided he didn’t care.

“You tell that to McKay.”

“Living off coffee and stimulants is going to kill you, Dean. Just say no.”

So John wasn’t the only one aware of the McKay approved engineering diet. If nursing staff knew, Carson, Keller and Lamb knew. No wonder Rodney was hiding out on the Daedalus, dispensing orders from the one ship with a voodoo practitioner he wasn’t scared of.

“Thank you, School Special Sam, I will. Man, I would kill for a decent cup of coffee.”

“At least the new stuff doesn’t taste like armpit.”

“No, it tastes like feet, ow, shit , Sam, warn a guy next time.”

“Suck it up, big shot.”

“You’re just jealous that I got minions, man, actual minions.”

This was new, so Sheppard dragged himself from the lure of medicated sleep and tried to pay attention, more attention that is.

“I can’t believe they’re letting you mould impressionable minds.”

“Impressionable? Hell, most of ‘em are older than me... I’ve heard more complaints about sciatica...”

“Maybe you just suck at teaching.”

“And maybe you suck in general.”

Ah, brotherly affection.

“Nope, I totally rock, because you big brother, are done.”

“Sweet. Thanks, man.”

And previous question answered. Paying attention helped, but John still had no idea why Winchester, er, Dean was teaching or managing minions. Were they that hard up on engineers and mechanics?

“Hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to pony land, where the hell do you think?”

“Dude, your whole hand is friggin taped up, you can’t fix anything like that ...”

“Minions, Sam. Minions.”

“Dean...”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. Really. Quit worrying.”

Wondering if it would be worthwhile to call out and get a few answers before Dean left, John opened his mouth, gagged a little at the taste of whatever had crawled inside his mouth and died and decided against it. Tomorrow.. er later today was close enough.

“Dean.”

“Sam. Just – chill, man. Just be safe, yeah?”

“Of course....”

“No, no, man. I mean it – it ain’t my ass everyone’s talking about, nimrod. Dude, you gotta stop taking off your shirt. I can hear the screams over on the Hammond.”

“You can’t hear sound in space, Dean.”

Sam didn’t sound too embarrassed or proud, but then... maybe it was a running joke?

“Psychic screams of girlish glee, dude.”

“Shut up.”

“That is not a smile I wanna see on your face, Sam.”

Ah, so pride it was. And maybe teasing too.

“Tough shit.”

“Just cover up, kay?”

“Gotta repopulate, Dean.”

“Oh, oh, tmi tmi!”

“You brought it up.”

“Yes, yes, I did. Later, Sam.”

“Dean, wait...”

“Dean?”

“Jerk.”

Sam the Giant Nurse sounded... sad. There were tidying up sounds and then soft footfalls away from the beds, and in the deepening quiet of a space ship on late shift, swallowed in the silence of the deep black, Sheppard found sleep suddenly far away as thoughts of his own brother filled his mind.

Hope you’re ok, Dave. 

sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn

This time, it was the smell of sweet and sour almost-just-don’t-ask-chicken that woke him, and not-so soft voices. Mid-morning, or close to lunch and Sheppard had already had the way too early wakeup call with a bedpan. Breakfast had been bland and mushy, and mostly ignored. Sleep seemed to be the order of the day and now, the smells and sounds of lunch drew him back to reality.

“Dean, this ... gah, so good.”

“Oh, you so owe me for this one. I had to fend off five jarheads for the extra plate.”

“I need to speak to the Doc about stealing Maquire, getting him to the Apollo.”

“No way man, Lamb would so totally block that.”

Snorting softly to himself, Sheppard nodded. Lamb would, he would, Carter would. Kev Maquire was going nowhere!

“And besides, Dean. You owe me, big time!”

“Huh? No way – what in the hell for?”

“I totally called Atlantis.”

“Dude, that was years ago.”

“Tough, shit. Atlantis, Dean, Atlantis as in the big damn floating city outside.”

Instantly, Sheppard sat up, really paying attention now, and struggled to free himself from the restrictive bed clothes, cursing under his breath.

“So totally doesn’t count. Alien, ancient humans flew it to another galaxy, so it’s not lost off the Canaries or Med or whatever.”

“It was the basis of the myth, so you owe me $500.”

“500! We are in a currency free economy, Sam. I don’t have 500 bucks!”

“I’ll take it in kind... you’re so totally covering my next ...”

Feet finally free, the floor cold and smooth under his bare feet, Sheppard pulled the curtains aside and snapped, “Atlantis? They made it?”

Two heads pivoted towards him, Dean’s fork half poised to his mouth, twin expressions of surprise.

“Oh Colonel, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” Sam said firmly, standing up to his impressive Ronon-height.

Waving him aside, John demanded again, “They’re here?”

Dean nodded, swallowed his mouthful and said, “Yeah, arrived about an hour ago, total chaos on the bridge. Sweet and sour to celebrate.”

A sharp jab of hurt nicked at Sheppard and he glanced around his bed and said, “Why didn’t they ... where’s my radio?”

“Hey, hey, I’ll get it. Dean, help the Colonel back into bed – back in bed, Colonel.” Sam disappeared and Dean hustled over, catching Sheppard who suddenly found the world tilting upwards and to the side, legs giving out on him.

“Dude, you like going to pass out on me and that’s... not cool.”

Winchester helped him back into bed, strangely strong and proficient at it, handing John his oxygen mask again. Sheppard didn’t remember taking it off, hell, he didn’t remember having it on in the first place. And then Nurse Sam was back and in the heady high of oxygen and morphine, Sheppard wondered if he would always think of Sam Winchester as Giant Nurse Sam. Probably.

Stammering a little, trying to pull it together, stop the race of his heart at the thought of Atlantis, John said, “Fine, fine, radio, thanks.” Sam handed the small earwig over, somehow managing to produce a disapproving smile.

“Welcome.”

Both Winchesters stepped back to their lunch, but kept a close eye on John but he didn’t really care. All he could hear in his own head was the deep, insistent cry of ‘Atlantis, Atlantis, Atlantis.’

Tapping the radio, signalling the command channel, he barked, “Bridge, this is Sheppard.”

“Colonel?”

“Why in the hell did no one tell me that Atlantis had found us?”

“Sorry sir, it’s been crazy. We’re plotting a rendezvous with the Civilian fleet, need to make sure the Ori didn’t follow them.”

Oh sure, be reasonable and practical. John hand waved that thought absently and said sharply, “Patch me through to Atlantis Actual.”

“Sir?”

“Now, Airman!”

“Yes, sir.”

In the century long seconds it took to raise Atlantis, Sheppard fidgeted and fussed, and ignored the curious looks from Dean and the cool ‘is he over-exerting himself’ assessing looks from Sam.

And then a familiar voice, one he had given up hearing again chirped in his ear, “Atlantis Actual”

“Chuck?”

The responding surprise and relief was ... awesome. “Col. Sheppard? Good to hear your voice!”

A dopey, happy smile on his face, Sheppard nodded, “Likewise, where in the hell have you guys been? Who’s in the control chair?”

Chuck sounded good – not too tired, not too stressed, relieved and happy. “Trying to stay ahead of the Ori mostly, sir. And Major Lorne, sir.”

Going through the checklist, John asked eagerly, “And Woolsey?”

“Here, sir, all of us are. No causalities since the attack. It’s been hairy though. The Ori really don’t like Atlantis.”

Nodding still, sharing a happy grin with the Winchesters who smiled back, Sheppard laughed, “Hell yeah they don’t. Or Ancient gene carriers. Patch me through to Lorne, please.”

“Yes, sir. Really to good to hear you again, sir.”

Chuck didn’t really give him a chance to reciprocate because all too soon he could hear the off-comm chatter of his long lost 2IC. “Lorne?”

“Colonel? Sir?” Lorne sounded... dead tired but the same relief and happiness was underscoring his voice, and Sheppard knew he sounded the same.

“Damn, you ok? City ok?”

The smile was audible, “Yes, sir. Damn glad we found you – O’Neill takes this hiding thing seriously. We’ve been looking for you for months.”

The large gaping hole that had been Atlantis and his men was slowly being filled, and John leant back into his bed and sighed, “It’s a big universe, Evan. How’d you lose Ori?”

“Careful planning and a planned multilevel strategy.”

“Dumb luck, huh?”

“Totally, sir.”

Unaccountably feeling his eyes burn, his stomach twist with emotion, Sheppard bit out, “Damn, Evan ... it’s just ..”

If his second in command sounded emotional, Sheppard was totally going to ignore it, “Likewise sir, very glad we found you.”

Shoving the emotion away, packing it in the same box as seeing Ronon, Teyla and Rodney after the first attack, something to be ignored and boxed and just ... Sheppard coughed and said brightly, professionally, “And the chair? You managing?”

There was real emotion in Lorne’s voice, both fear and laughter as he said, “It’s been rough keeping the city going without McKay and Zelenka, but we managed. She flies like a barn, sir. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Laughing, just a little, John shrugged, “Pretty sure I did – although I may have said 2 tonne barge.”

There was a moment of dead air, Lorne’s voice off_comm to someone and then he was back, “I’m getting pinged sir, Big Brass on the line.”

Relieved and at peace, John sighed contentedly, “No problem. Chat later then. She better not have any scratches, Evan.”

“Yes, sir.” And then, he was gone.

The thought of Atlantis, of a home he’d written off as lost and gone and a gaping hole of memories and years of happiness filled him. There were twin smiles on the Winchester faces across from him and John couldn’t help smile in return, nay grin like a mad thing.

Who cared if they were civilians and had no idea what Atlantis was, what it meant to the Fleet, to him. He was happy, so they were happy. In a world gone pear shaped, down the rabbit hole in a basket marked ‘Hell Express’, where homes and families were lost, Home had found them.

Home.

Atlantis.

sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn sga*spn*sga*spn


	3.   Here Tomorrow Gone Today 3/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_. Shep POV and now with brand new Rodney POV.

  


Title:Here Tomorrow Gone Today 3/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Fandom: SPN/SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And if I owned SPN, there would be less shirt wearing entirely and more workouts. 

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_. Shep POV and now with brand new Rodney POV.

Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none. 

 

Operation chocolate brownie

Operation chocolate brownie was a go. Maquire had given him a list of ‘as-near-as’ ingredients to look out for and Sheppard was good to go. Amazingly Atlantis had still had a supply of real, honest to God chocolate and with careful hoarding, there was still enough for a batch of Maquire’s famous brownies. Apparently it paid having McKay off Atlantis, and with the chocolate supplies under careful lock and key, not even his return and demanding badgering had threatened the supply. 

Sheppard wanted to get to the Gateroom before it got crowded. Food was short generally and O’Neill was sending out every Gate-cleared and available person he could. The man did like his food afterall. 

Caught up in thought, mostly about the brownies, Sheppard nearly ran into a tree, which turned out to be a very tall person instead and that meant only one thing, “Giant Nurse Sam?”

“I wish you would stop calling me that.” Sam Winchester was the perfect pictured definition of exasperation, with accompanying huff. 

Unable to stop himself, John smiled and asked, “Would you prefer Ginormous Sam? Or how about just plain GN... “ Sheppard waited a heartbeat and then smiled, “You know, GN....Giant Nurse? Gene for short?”

“If you have to explain it, it’s not funny.”

And sure enough, these days where you found one Winchester, you invariably found, bumped into or heard about the other. Dean, partially hidden by the bulk of his baby brother and wasn’t that a riot, was scowling down at his tac vest, fiddling with the clasp for the P-90. Both Winchesters were wearing a mismatch of gear, but the tac vests were stiff and unwieldy and it must have been the combined amusement of watching Dean struggling to clip on his P-90 and Sam try and think of a comeback on why GN anything was unacceptable, but it took a few moments for the realisation to hit, “Wait, since when are you two cleared for Gate Travel?”

Still frowning at his P-90 like it was a recalcitrant child or stubborn piece of machinery, Dean grumbled, “Not our first rodeo, man. Or our first ‘go find some food before we starve’ trip through the big blue swirly thing.”

John opened his mouth to comment, ask, probe, nay demand further information on how and when that had happened, but Sam returned to exasperation mode and sighed, “Dean – it’s a Stargate, not a ... blue swirly thing...you make it sound like a ... “

“Toilet?” Dean supplied and at Sam’s grimace, laughed, “Oh, just you wait, Sam. One of these days that Jackson guy is going to find some obscure reference that Stargate is also a euphemism for toilet in Ancient... some running gag for years for those crusty... ole... dead... ah... damn it!” Dean shook his P-90 in frustration and batted Sam’s hand away, absently at the same time.

Sam’s muttered “Euphemism?” was swallowed by Sheppard’s bark of laughter when Dean cursed again and swore, “Damn thing won’t clip!”

Fending his brother’s hand away more than fighting with his p-90 now, Dean stepped back and growled at both of them, but little brother would have none of it and slapped Dean’s hand sharply and as Dean clutched his hand, an ‘ouch’ non-verbalised,Sam neatly clipped the P-90 to the vest.

“There you go. Need me to tie your shoe?”

“Only if you want to do while it’s on your face!”

Unable to help himself, Sheppard deadpanned quietly, but not too quietly, “Someone’s in a mood.”

Snapping around, Dean pointed a finger at Sheppard’s head and said, “Well your hair is still stupid.” And without really taking a breath, threw up his hands and cried, “And why is it that in the entire universe, we can’t find one planet with actual coffee besides Earth.”

Sam shared an amused but tired look with John and said, “Don’t mind him. He’s still pissed that aliens are real.”

“No, I am pissed that we have no coffee! What, the freaky Ancients couldn’t have planted a few brushes around, and spread the love?” Dean threw his hands up dramatically, nearly whacking Sam, but perhaps it was not accidental. 

“Maybe they weren’t caffeine addicts and valued their health,” Sam smiled, neatly side stepping the flailing hands, and instead shoved a smooth, well worn Colt at Dean.

Tirade hardly derailed, Dean snatched the Colt from him and shoved into a holster, and motioned for more. “Or maybe, if they had drunk coffee, they’d lived longer!”

Now the picture of long suffering and patience, with only a soupcon of exasperation, Sam rolled his eyes as he handed over another gun, maybe a Glock, “They didn’t die, they ascended. Became Beings on a higher plane.”

Not really giving the argument 100% of his attention, Sheppard noted that the Gate room was filling up, as more and more people trickled in, all geared up, or in the throes of doing so, and he didn’t really catch the just of Dean’s mutter, “Whatever, they’re angel wannabees, and I bet you they’re a bunch of douchebags ...”

“Sheppard!”

“Mitchell,” John replied, smiling in reply as Colonel Mitchell sauntered over. Sam nodded at Mitchell as well, but Dean was still patting himself down and putting away a third gun? “Still a walking arsenal, huh, Winchester?”

The look Dean shot at Mitchell was filled with derision, “Life sucking alien vampires.”

“Wrong galaxy, Winchester,” Cam laughed, but slapped Dean on the back in a good humour. Smirking in return, Dean smoothly took yet another gun from Sam and sarcastically laughed, “Yeah, like last time when you said the odds of running into a gou’ald were astronomical and we ran back to the Gate with Jaggers firing at our asses.”

“Jaffa,” all three of them corrected but Dean pointed a sharp finger at Mitchell and Sheppard in turn, “I’ve heard about your missions, Colonels and I’m not taking any chances... your luck sucks ass.”

“Considering we’re still alive, I think our luck is pretty much perfect,” Mitchell shrugged and then smiled wickedly, “It’s you red shirts that I get worried about.”

“I swear, Mitchell... if anything... I still fix your damned plane so don’t jinx the whole damn...” Dean growled and Sam calmly coughed and interjected with, “General O’Neil’s here.”

Atlantis’ Gate Room was packed by now, the late comers still in the corridors leading to the area. General O’Neil was making his way down from the upper level, talking loudly with Woolsey, who looked pained. And over the general hum of conversation, Sheppard could hear Rodney making his way over to them, Ronon and Teyla trailing in his wake. 

“Out of... my way!”

Turning to Dean who was still scowling, Sheppard smiled, “You better transfer out of Engineering fast, you’re beginning to sound more and more like McKay.” Sam just laughed, while Mitchell guffawed loudly. 

Dean however looked affronted at the very idea and just as Rodney shoved his way past the last looming Marine-type, he said, “I’d like to see you work with the man and not want to kill people afterwards.”

Ever sharp to implied insults, Rodney snapped, “Who? And what in the hell are you doing here?”

To which Dean smirked and said, “You and saving your ass... again.”

Teyla and Ronon sidled up to John and smiled in greeting, Ronon giving him a friendly shove. As John righted himself, trying not to wince too much, Sam grabbed the back of Dean’s vest and said quietly, “You can argue with McKay later, there’s Hunt, let’s go.”

“Wah...” Rodney mouthed as Sam dragged Dean off, and belatedly yelled, “You have never saved my ass! I am more than capable on saving my own ass!”

Mitchell laughed softly and said, “See you on the other side, Sheppard. My Marines are looking lost and forlorn without me.” Mitchell also disappeared into the crowd as O’Neil whistled sharply to get everyone’s attention.

Rodney glowered, his expression similar to the one on Dean’s face earlier, “I hate that man.”

“Who? Colonel Mitchell?” Teyla asked.

“No. Yes... no... I mean Winchester! He just ... “ Rodney flapped his hands dramatically.

“I think the feelings mutual, McKay. And it’s your own fault he’s in Engineering anyway,” Sheppard said quietly, looking attentive as O’Neil waited for quiet.

Whatever Rodney was going to say however was swallowed for later, as O’Neil yelled, “Listen up, kids! Food is low, and I for one do not want a week of Chef’s Surprise again. So, get out there, find some harvests, bargain, secure us a crap load of food and get back here. Do not engage the Priors, no matter how ugly they are and if you can steal some supplies from the Gou’ald, do it. And anyone who brings the Ori down on our asses is walking home!”

There was a general murmur of ‘yes sir’ and O’Neill spotted Sheppard and shouted, “And Sheppard. If you don’t come back with Maquire’s supplies, I will not be held responsible for the consequences.”

John nodded, fighting a smile. Rodney however perked up and said, “We’re on Operation Chocolate Brownie? Excellent!”

“I’m on Operation Chocolate Brownie, you, Rodney are on Operation Get Food.” Rodney however was not listening and was tapping away on his tablet, muttering excitedly already.

Ronon and Teyla shared a smile with John as the wormhole engaged and O’Neil shouted, “Be back at the rendezvous in two hours. If you’re late, tough. The only one we’ll wait for is Sheppard, got it?”

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga

Rodney’s Fault

( _not too long after the First Attack)_

“What The Hell do you mean Deck 3 has no life support, if Deck 3 had no life support everyone on Deck 3 would be dead and since you are calling from Deck 3 and are NOT dead, maybe brain dead, but not dead enough to call me, Deck 3 must have life support.” Rodney stalked down the corridor, tablet and tools in hand, ear wig jammed into his ear and furious. The calm and nasal voice of Ensign Marks chirped annoyingly in his ear.

_ “But the light on the panel says Life Support is down, sir.”  _

Rolling his eyes, Rodney growled, “Light on the Panel? If you are calling me to report a broken light bulb, I will space you...”

Sounding entirely unconcerned with the threat, Marks replied _, “No, we checked, changed the light bulbs around, it light up on other systems, so it’s not the bulb.”_

Cursing Marks and all the idiots like him in the Air Force, Rodney injected as much disgust as he could, “Changed them around ... stop, stop, just stop, next thing you’ll tell me you tried tapping it, and blowing on it.”

_ “Sir?” _ Marks sounded genuinely confused and that hardly endeared him. 

“I’ll be there in five seconds, just don’t touch anything.”

The doors onto Deck 3’s auxiliary environmental control room hissed open and Rodney entered with the force and presence of a hurricane but Marks just smiled in relief, “See sir, the panel indicates life support as down or non operational and ...” He pointed helpfully at the decidedly blank panel.

Interrupting, Rodney snarled, “Just stop talking, you’re taking up available oxygen I need. Right... let’s see what you morons screwed up...”

Undeterred, Marks smiled, “See, sir, the bulb...”

“Shut it!” Rodney opened up the panel quickly and smoothly, if he did say so himself and noticed pretty much straight away.... “What in the... someone has... life support is not down, obviously because we are breathing and not sucking in vacuum but someone has turned off the environmental controls.... or rather the alarm.” A sneaky suspicion bloomed in Rodney’s brilliant mind and he quickly re-connected the cables and controls. Instantly a blaring alarm started, sharp and shrill and annoying.

Marks looked around as if he was expecting something terrible to happen and said, “What did you do, sir?”

Rodney tried to bypass the alarm, but his tablet was not responding fast enough, “Nothing, nothing, shut up, shut up, you stupid machine.”

_ “Rodney, what did you do, every board light up... and loading bay 5 indicates one quarter gravity.” _

Zelenka’s over accented voice chirped in his ear and Rodney tapped on his tablet, pulling up a schematic, “Loading Bay 5 you say? Quarter grav?”

_ “Yes, Rodney. Are you depressurising, you sound... high pitched.” _

“Sir?” Marks quipped in concern.

A very sneaking suspicion was growing and Rodney moved from pulling up schematics, to duty rosters, “Shut up, all of you, including you, Zelenka. Loading Bay 5!”

_ “Yes.” _

And there, there was the answer.The goods and crates from the last supply run, or as O’Neil called them ‘Pirate Run’ on a Gou’ald world were will being sorted and shipped out to the Fleet, all from Loading Bay 5. And who was assigned, or rather still assigned to Loading Bay 5?

“Winchester!”

Without looking to see if Marks was following, Rodney ran out of the room, heading towards Loading Bay 5. Shoving aside a pair of Airmen who were too slow to get out of his way fast enough, Rodney reached Bay 5 in record time.

He didn’t actually dare open the loading bay doors what with the quarter gravity but there was a window, and an intercom and he leant on the intercom button with an angry red finger and yelled at full volume, “Winchester, you unmitigated moron, you’re going to kill us all!”

There was a good minute of silence, long enough for Marks to catch up, and then Winchester’s damn smug face floated into view on the otherside, and his overly deep voice came through the com, “Still alive to yell at me.”

“Not the point! Disparate gravity wells on a space ship does not make for happy endings... only quiet, vacuumed, they can’t hear you scream in space endings!” Rodney shouted, wishing he could get right into Winchester’s face, wishing there was no convenient window between them.

“If it hasn’t happened in the past 3 days, I doubt it’s going to happen.” The man looked beyond smug, beyond unrepentant. He looked.... delighted!

Glaring, shooting as much ire and hate as he could, Rodney growled, “I know you’re not a half wit because you’ve managed to pull this off, but that is so not the point, half wit! Stresses, micro-fractures, weakened seals occur over a period of time! I am going to have to overhaul this entire ship to make you haven’t killed everyone on board!”

The man’s unmitigated gall resulted in a smirk, an actual smirk, “At least the loading and transport was done in record time. Just floated right by – as it were.”

“NOT THE POINT! You have doomed us ALL!” Rodney yelled and drew breath for further lambasting when Zelenka’s voice came over the ship’s radio.

_ “Actually Rodney, I don’t think he has...” _

“What?” Rodney stammered and Winchester winked through the thick glass and said, “Told ya.”

_ “He has set similar conditions in the loading bay as the hangar and all systems are nominal... once we adjusted the environmental controls to hangar bay conditions, something Winchester would not have been able to do from auxiliary...” _

As ever Rodney’s mind was already three steps ahead of everyone and Winchester’s smug smile needed to be dealt with. So, Rodney snapped at Zelenka, “Not listening anymore, Zelenka. Winchester, if you are bored enough to mess around with labour saving devices, I have a job for you.”

Winchester’s face momentarily fell and then looked bored, “No thanks, not interested.”

And Rodney smiled, already planning a truly awesome roster, “I’m sorry, what made you think it was optional! And quit breathing down my neck, Lurch!”

Unrepentant and smiling, Marks said, “Sorry, sir.”

Pointing at Dean, Rodney barked, “05h00, Winchester!”

“Not happening, McKay.”

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga  
  
[Part 1](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/11780.html)   [Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14123.html)    [Part 3](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14866.html)   [Part 4](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/19585.html)  [Part 5 ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/26624.html) 

A/N: Sigh. See this is why it was a one shot originally  J I have lots of disconnected scenes in my head so as a result I am not 100% happy with this chapter, because it’s as cohesive as I could make it without forcing the issue.

And for this one, I am not above asking for feedback... it is Christmas afterall. Thanks for reading. 

 


	4. Here Tomorrow Gone Today 4/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_. Continues on from part 3

  


Here Tomorrow Gone Today 4/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Fandom: SPN/SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And if I owned SPN, there would be less shirt wearing entirely and more workouts. 

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_. Continues on from part 3

Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none. 

 

“I guess I shouldn’t have made that crack about red shirts. He looks pissed,” Mitchell yelled over the sound of gunfire, energy weapons and explosions. He ducked further behind the scant cover of an overturned stone and loaded in a fresh clip.

“Looks like he’s throwing Molotov cocktails. Where in the hell is he getting those?” Sheppard shouted from right next to him, steadily emptying yet another clip at the nearest fortified position of their attackers. 

“From alcohol?” Mitchell replied, peering up over the stone, waiting for his turn to lay down covering fire.

Sheppard laughed and continued to fire, “Where’s he getting the alcohol smartass, ‘cos I don’t see a kwiki mart nearby.”

Smiling, Mitchell guffawed, “Maybe he has previously untapped alcohol producing powers?”

Sheppard pumped out the last bullet and Mitchell sat up and began firing at the same position while John ducked down, saying, “That’d be cool.”

Mitchell took aim on the shielded hostiles, who were keeping all the Gate teams pinned down. Fortunately Planet Rendezvous has plenty of cover, and space to return fire. But the DHD had been tampered with and they couldn’t dial out. In fact the first team back had disturbed the saboteurs who were now the poorly planned ambushers. McKay was huddled by the DHD, working furiously. Gate teams were huddled in a half circle around the Gate, two or three providing cover for incoming teams and the rest trying to keep the ambushers from hitting Rodney. The hostiles only had three fortified positions but with the impressive shields, they weren’t budging. It was going to be a long day.

Well, that was until Dean Winchester started lobbying Molotov cocktails at them. 

Mitchell snapped off a shot at a possible opening and heard Winchester yelling, “Actual hooch, we found actual hooch and I am now wasting it on you morons!”

The dry grass was catching on fire, and billows of smoke were starting to build. Sheppard, fresh clip loaded, pressed his shoulder against the stone and yelled, “That’s a pity I could do with some hooch. That last batch of grog was terrible.”

Mitchell snorted, taking aim on the side of the shield, while Ronon blasted away at the centre mass, “I though the Norwegians had cornered the grog market with their NuevoGrog?”

Shaking his head, Sheppard made ‘hurry up motions’ at Rodney, “Nah, that’s the Poles, Waskowski. The Norwegians are still making swill.” Rodney lifted a finger, a non polite one and did not bother replying.

Groaning, Mitchell fired steadily, “Oh, terrible pun, Sheppard.”

John wasn’t paying attention though and said sharply, “Where’s Gene?”

Out of nowhere, Sam Winchester ran over and handed Sheppard two clay bottles with rags stuffed in the top, “Here, and its Sam.”

“Oh hey, Gene,” Sheppard smiled, taking the bottles.

Already heading for the next position, Sam yelled over his shoulder, “Call me that again and I will punch you in the face.”

Once he was certain Sam was out of earshot, Sheppard laughed, “Nah, not worried.” He handed a bottle up to Mitchell and said, “Here, be useful, throw this.”

Ducking down, and giving the bottle a sniff, Cam sighed, “I’d rather drink it.” 

“How’d you get so much?” Sam was back, giving them two more bottles and he rolled his eyes, “Dean wanted to trade sexual favours but we wouldn’t have had time to make the deadline for the rendezvous.” He ran off again, two bottles precariously held under his arms, two more in hand. A rebel yell whoop from Dean heralded a fresh blaze and tower of smoke.

John frowned, “Wait... he didn’t actually answer the question!”

Cam though had unplugged a bottle and had taken a cautious sip before gagging and coughing, “No, gah, this stuff will make you go blind!”

Smacking him on the arm, Sheppard pulled out a lighter and flicked it on, “Burn, not drink, Mitchell!”

Sam Winchester had managed to arm teams firing at all three fortified positions and an old fashioned flurry of burning bottles were tossed with haphazard accuracy at the shields. The explosions were pretty awesome, the smoke intense as the grass caught alight. The wind was with the SGC teams and blowing towards the ambushers. The smoke made it difficult for the hostiles to fire with any accuracy and the grass fire could potentially reach the edge of the shields and force a retreat.

McKay though was coughing so much in the smokey air that he yelled from the DHD, “Whose bright idea was the copious amount of smoke that is going to kill us when the wind changes?”

From behind his log, Dean Winchester yelled back, “Chicken shit alien bad guys hiding behind shields, who cheat. Can’t see us now, can they?”

“Shut up, Winchester!” was McKay’s witty rejoinder.

Perhaps having Winchester come up with a bright idea inspired Rodney to work faster and prove he was still numero uno on the Science list, because in two minutes flat he had the DHD working. “Got it!” He was dialling even as he shouted in triumph. The return fire from their ambushers had petered out to the odd pot shot, but everyone was still careful as they began to pull back. Dean though lobbed one more bottle, right at a shield and grinned as the burning liquid splattered on the barely visible bubble. “Cool.”

As Senior Officers, Sheppard and Mitchell were the last ones through, with two Marines hovering in an annoyed pattern. It was impossible to be last man through when Marines were around. COs dying on their watch was the height of poor form, especially Air Force Colonel COs.

The Gate Room back on Atlantis was still packed with teams putting down what few supplies they had managed to trade for, and the heading over to Dr Lee and Sam Carter to report on what harvests they had secured. General O’Neill strolled down the stairs, and yelled into the crowd, “What did I tell you kids about smoking? It’ll stunt your growth.” As O’Neill passed Ronon, he slapped him on the arm in demonstration.

Reaching the Gate and the two Colonels, O’Neill drawled, “Mitchell, report.”

Coughing, trying to find some salvia, Cameron said hoarsely, “Uh, tampered DHD, unable to dial out. Hostiles under cover of shields, attempted ambush.”

Frowning, the lines on his face deepening, O’Neill snapped, “Who, Priors? Jaffa? My old friends the Tic Tac Toes?”

Shrugging, Mitchell gasped, “Unknown sir, couldn’t get clear look at them, but energy based weapons.”

O’Neill gave Cam an equal if not more hearty slap on the arm and said, “Well done, Mitchell, found us some new enemies. What’s one more?”

“Sir?” Mitchell asked, squinting a little. But O’Neill had already moved on to John. “Sheppard, report.”

“Success sir, all bar one ingredient,” Sheppard snapped to attention as much as he ever did, which wasn’t much but O’Neill had never minded.

Mock pouting, Jack said, “What, the pistachios?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn. Well, off to Maguire, chop chop, wait, wait... you, Wesson?” O’Neill pointed at Dean who was making his way past them with an armload of bottles. Sam was trailing him, with a slightly smaller load.

Dean frowned and corrected him with, “Winchester, .... sir.” The ‘sir’ was a good heartbeat too late. Mitchell and Sheppard both rolled their eyes. O’Neill though squinted at Dean though and said, “Remington?”

Eyes flinty, Dean said firmly, “Winchester!”

O’Neill wasn’t done though and asked in perfect innocence, “Walther?”

“Win... what sir?” Giving up, Dean drawled.

“Is that alcohol?” O’Neill was smiling, pleased as punch with himself. 

“No, sir.” Dean was straight-faced and serious, Sam a mirror image. 

“Are you lying, Wesson?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Neill nodded and smiled, “Carry on then.” Dean and Sam hurried off without a backwards glance, away from the collection of mutual goods. All three men watched them go and O’Neill muttered, “How’d he get it?”

Mitchell shrugged, “Wouldn’t say, sir.”

“Good man, thinks on his feet,” Jack turned and looked at Carter making notes on her tablet.

Sheppard quipped, “Yes, sir.” O’Neill turned back and gave him a hairy eyeball. “Don’t start that again, Sheppard. One round of ‘Make O’Neill’s Eye Twitch’ was enough, thanks.”

“Don’t know what you mean, sir.”

*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn

 

It was a few days later, and the _Deadalus, Hammond_ and _Apollo_ were docked on Atlantis. The bright emerald green gas giant that Atlantis was orbiting was so far the prefect hiding spot. With their very own Gate on board, the harried fleet no longer had to keep running from world to world.

The Ori were suspiciously quiet so a little war meeting had been called to catch up on various offenses. With food coming in from all over the galaxy, things were looking up. Most of the civilians had been relocated to Atlantis, freeing up more ships for the Combat Fleet. Plans were afoot, campaigns were being nutted out and no one really addressing the massive impossibility of freeing Earth. 

Cam was ambling down a long corridor, heading towards the cafeteria when he heard O’Neill yell, “Mitchell!”

Turning on his heel, Cam snapped out a “Yes, sir!”

Speeding up to reach Mitchell, O’Neill puffed, “You remember the Beer World Wesson plundered?”

“Sir,” Cam nodded.

Hands on hips, O’Neill waved absently, trying to catch his breath, “Got a hit on a dead drop world from ‘em. Want to talk to us.”

“Sir?”

Frowning, just a little, O’Neill drawled, “Take the usual squad, Mitchell. Check it out.”

“Sir.” Mitchell nearly saluted, but caught the glare in time and O’Neill growled, “Call me sir one more time Mitchell and I’m going to space you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Jack was in his office, feet up on his desk when Walter ‘pipped’ the comm. to let him know that Mitchell was back. As Cam walked in, O’Neill tossed a paper airplane at his head and said, “Back already?”

Scratching his head, still kitted out in heavy gear, Mitchell shrugged, “Well General, we didn’t need the heavily armed ‘Just in Case You Think We Ripped You Off’ squad. They actually want to do more business.” 

Sitting up, pleasantly surprised, Jack paused in throwing his next plane and smiled, “Oh?”

Dodging the aerodynamic papercut, Cameron nodded, “Apparently the Winchesters drew some wards against evil for them, which work so well that they want more.”

“Say what?” Jack’s third plane went right over Mitchell’s head and landed on Walter’s desk accompanied by a resigned, long suffering sigh.

Watching the fourth plane with concern, Mitchell repeated clearly, “Wards against evil, sir?”

“That’s what I thought you mumbled....Are you sure they not trying to snake oil us? Trick us into slavery? Sell us mind altering drugs?” Jack pointed his plane at Cameron, the yellow post it from Walter marked ‘Please don’t turn into an airplane, sir’ on its tail. 

In shared bemusement, Colonel Mitchell nodded, “Pretty sure sir, they seemed genuine and excited.”

“Chuck!” Jack yelled and the technician turned in his chair, “Sir, yes, sir?”

Snarling to himself and then jabbing the plane at Cameron, Jack hissed, “Whoever started that bet again is going to die!”

“Sir!” Mitchell replied. Scowling fiercely, Jack shouted at Chuck, “Clean up on Aisle Three Alert please!”

Chuck stared at the glass window, turned back to his consol, checked a few papers and then turned slowly back and asked hesitantly, “Which one is that one again, sir?”

Standing up and pointing the paper plane at Chuck, O’Neill barked, “Just get Smith and Wesson down here, now!”

“Sir,” Chuck replied snappily. Eyes narrow and plane poised for attack, Jack growled, “I’m warning you Chuck.... and you too, Hickville.” Cameron nodded solemnly and said, “Sir, yes, sir.”

O’Neill’s plane hit him right between the eyes.

*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn

 

Sheppard had caught the call over the command channel and then general PA as Chuck tracked down the Winchesters. Curiosity piqued, he arrived just in time for the impromptu meeting in O’Neill’s office. The General looked a little irate, and Walter had rescued all of his paperwork, so Jack was also short on ammunition. Both Winchesters were standing near the door, looking confused although Dean was projecting perfect innocence while Sam was looking a tad worried.

Daniel Jackson had been hauled out of the Ancient’s archives and only when Jack had waved a drawing of the ‘ward’ did his demeanour change from annoyance to interest. Jack had opened the proceedings with, “What in the hell is that and why did you draw it for booze?”

Dean folded his arms and Sam sighed, “It’s a protective symbol.”

Interjecting, pushing his hair push into messy spikes, Daniel corrected, “Actually, it appears that you drew a Key of Solomon in the village square and at several of the main entrances, devil traps?”

“What Daniel said,” O’Neill reinforced, glaring at Dean, who seemed nonplussed. Again it was Sam who answered, “And the problem is?”

From the back of the room, lurking initially in obscurity, Woolsey stepped forward, making Mitchell step back into a plant to give him space, “First... peddling voodoo to the gullible idiots of the Milky Way is the problem, you unethical cads. Second, contaminating native cultures with earth based religions is a problem. And third, ... I had a third.” Woolsey turned his page, looking for his notes. 

Jack though waved that aside and snapped, “Never mind, Woolsey. My fourth is more important. Fourth... why does it work?”

For this Dean deigned to reply and shrugged, “Oh, ah. Don’t know. Just does.”

Jackson peered at them both, as if he’d just realised that the half broken pot he’d thought was Samarian might actually be Aztec, so with intrigued delight said, “That is decidedly unhelpful.”

Both Jack and Woolsey were nodding, but only Woolsey said sharply, “Yes, it is.” Sheppard smiled, and caught Mitchell doing the same as both Winchesters shrugged. Dean made as if to leave, “If that’s it, can we go?”

“No!” Three voices chorused in unison and Dean slumped. Sam though said with deep curiosity, slouching down as he did so, “Why, what did it keep out?”

Jack’s smile was wide, but Jackson answered, pushing on his nose to correct long absent glasses, “Three Priors. Couldn’t enter the village or even attack it.”

The Winchesters shared a stunned look and Dean laughed, “Can’t be the Key. The Enochian you think?” Sam shrugged, “Maybe?”

Daniel looked flummoxed whilst everyone looked confused. Sheppard stared at Mitchell for confirmation and Cam nodded, aware of the intel but no closer to an answer. Jack barked, “Say what again?” 

Dean just laughed and patted O’Neil on the arm, “Oh, you are going to love this, sir.”

And with his mind not really focused with this massive newsflash, Jack absently snapped back, “Don’t call me, sir!”

The collective groan was drowned out by Dean’s whoop, “Yes! I win!”

“Damnit!” Jack cursed.

Sheppard cursed too, he was out a week’s worth of chocolate brownies. Damnit!

*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn*sga^spn

TBC

 

This chapter is dedicated to Seraphim XII, because she nags. And nags. And nags. And is awesome. So there. 

 [Part 1](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/11780.html)   [Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14123.html)    [Part 3](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14866.html)   [Part 4](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/19585.html)  [Part 5 ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/26624.html)   



	5. Here Tomorrow Gone Today 5/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_.

  


Here Tomorrow Gone Today 5/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Fandom: SPN/SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And if I owned SPN, there would be less shirt wearing entirely and more workouts. Unbeta-ed, so mistakes are mine.

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the _Hammond_.    
  
Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none

A stiff breeze inexorably bent the long grass, a merciless force determined to win. Yet the moment the breeze died down, took a breath, the grass slowly straightened, once more reaching for the sky, a blaze of gold topped green, lush and vibrant.

Late spring and the meadows, fields and green spaces were already choked with heavy growth, seeds and flowers bursting, the barren months of winter forgotten. The narrow little farm road, more dirt than tarmac, that ran into the main road towards Sioux Falls was quiet, the hum of insects the only sound in the late afternoon. The earth’s slow turn away from the sun was turning the bright spring sky darker, the light less bright yellow and more gold. It would be hours yet of sunlight, the unseasonal heat not yet passing, but there was barely any movement other than buzzing insects.

It was almost as if there was a breath being held, a pause before exhalation, waiting, wondering. The breeze picked up again, flattening the grass intermittently, turning the thick fields into a choppy sea of gold with green depths stirred beneath.

The sharp bark of a gunshot shattered the quiet and a flurry of previously hidden birds burst from cover filling the sky with shadows and movement. The insects’ hum was swallowed in the distant but growing sound feet pounding on the road, running.

“Move!”

Another gunshot and suddenly the road was filled with people, running. Mostly women and children in the front, a knot of men with rifles at the rear, watching the road behind more than the front, even as they urged everyone forward.

Bobby spotted the sharp rise on the left, a steep hill towering over the road, unexpected in the flat farmland of South Dakota, but just what they’d been looking for. “Sheriff Mills! Left. Get to high ground.”

Jody Mills leading the pack of terrified people nodded sharply, hefting her rifle over her shoulder and directing the folk up front to head off road. Bobby turned to watch the rear again, the mix of neighbors and strangers around him comforting in the fact that they were armed, human and all in the same predicament.

Sam and Dean were several long feet behind everyone, buying the slower, less experienced to mass terror people time to get ahead of the marching invaders. Dean was taking pot shots with his sniper rifle, scope barely used, but more often hitting his mark. The only reason they were all still alive was that the invaders didn’t have one of those weird priest guys with them. Instead it was just human looking aliens in armor with spears that shot lasers. Of all the cockamamie ways for the world to end, they got invasion by the steampunk religious zealots. Figured.

Bobby continued to back up, shot gun at the ready, watching out of the corner of his eye as the thick grass on the hill was flattened by dozens of feet, all desperate to reach some sort of safety. Thing was though… they didn’t really have anywhere to go, to hide. They were just running, and in true Winchester fashion, hoping for the best. Figuring it out as they went.

Sioux Falls was a wasteland, a slaughterhouse more than battlefield. Some towns got ultimatums. _Convert or die._ Other towns got bypassed entirely. And some… like Sioux Falls just got the sharp edge of the sword and death. No quarter given. No mercy. No escape.

The distinctive hiss and snap of energy weapon fire, something out of a bad sci fi movie filled the air, and then Sam was running towards them, those long legs eating up the road. “Go, go. They’ve regrouped. Go!”

Bobby didn’t wait to see if Dean was following, he turned and ran up the hill. The high ground was it. Their last advantage. The new Alamo in South Dakota. Maybe little Big Horn. The slope was slippery with bent grass, and Bobby stumbled a few times, catching his knees, breaking denim and skin. As he reached the top, Sheriff Mills joined him. The women and children were huddled on the lee side, laying flat behind bushes and trees, as if that was any cover for space spears.

Even though they should probably all drop and not stick out like lined up targets, everyone with a weapon, rifle or handgun, stood on the rise, waiting for the enemy to appear. There was no chatter, no quips or jokes. The only sound was muffled crying, the odd sniff, the pounding of your heart in your ears. There were a lot of shaking hands on rifle butts, nervous fingers hovering over triggers, sweat drenched faces.

Sam was a statue of silent intense anxiety. The sound of gunfire was gone, the weird energy weapons silent. Whatever Dean was up to…

The detonation of an explosion blew out across the fields, flattening crops and grass and everyone on the hill took a step back, feeling the wave of pressure, the distant trail of heat. “Shit,” Sam hissed and moved as if to head back down the hill. But Dean was already around the corner, running hell for leather down the road. He looked like a damn armory, rifle slung over his backpack, but he cleared the hill with ease, soon joining them all.

Expectant faces in unison turned to him and the cocky grin wasn’t as wide or deep as it should have been. “That was close, nearly took my eyebrows off.”

“Idijit.”

No one was asking how and why the Winchester boys who sometimes hung around Bobby Singer’s place had so much armament, or experience in blowing stuff up. No one cared and it wasn’t so much a case of gift horses and dental hygiene but more like relief … that someone knew what to do.

Sam rolled his eyes, and said, “How many?”

Kneeling and pulling out more ammunition and grenades, Dean shrugged, “Some. Enough. Well, enough to piss them off even more.”

Grim smiles all around and people bent to pick more ammo. Dean smiled brightly and said, “I saw no sign of reinforcements, so if we can pick them off from up here, or get ‘em to run…”

And that was the plan. All of it.

No radio. No Tv. No cellphone signal. Nothing. Nada. No sign of the military. No sign of anything. If they survived this… they’d decide what to do next.

It was maybe unnecessary but Bobby grunted and said sharply to everyone, “You got a rifle, make the shots count. Handguns? Don’t shoot ‘em till they’re on the hill or you can see the whites of their eyes.” More grim smiles and sharp nods and Sheriff Mills laughed, “What, no inspiring speech, Singer?”

Bobby forced a smile. “Nope. Just shoot ‘em.”

And then they were there. Sam and Dean had taught the SOBs caution and at Sam’s shout everyone on the hill ducked and scattered for position and cover. Dean though remained standing and snapped a shot off at the scout below. The helmeted alien got off his own shot before Dean’s dropped him but his went over their heads, or at least where they heads had been.

Like some mad man, which he was anyway, Dean remained standing, rifle up, eye sighted down the barrel, and as more alien soldiers rounded the corner of the road, the nice blind corner with heavy trees and vegetation, he popped one, two, three men before Sam hauled him down and a volley of spear blasts hit the air where Dean had been.

“Balls,” Bobby muttered to himself, cocked his shot gun and looked for an opening.

It wasn’t like the movies at all. No hail of gun fire, no pretty fall of shell casings like rain, or slow motion effects as men fell. It was a terrifying, adrenalin soaked nightmare. The soldiers below peppered the hill with blasts from their spears and cautiously the survivors of Sioux Falls popped up and took pot shots. On their own, it wouldn’t have been enough to keep the soldiers pinned, or reluctant to charge the hill. But when you had two idijits hell bent on killing as many evil SOBs as they could…

Dean was firing steadily and accurately, and Sam was right behind him, just as deadly, just as accurate. No doubt they were keeping some ridiculous tally. Bobby had already heard them muttering something about Helm’s Deep and perhaps the last cuff to the back of their fool heads had followed. A shot gun needed a little closer range and unfortunately, Bobby got his chance all too soon.

Religious zealots were the same the universe over it seemed and a dozen or so soldiers charged the hill, running up straight into the answering gunfire from the shot guns and handguns. None of the soldiers made the top, but they weren’t all dead, most only wounded and waiting no doubt for a chance.

There were maybe another two dozen soldiers at the base of the hill, not too bad odds for their ragged bunch of survivors. Except, the aliens could get reinforcements, or worse, one of those freaky priests would arrive. And their own ammunition was in short supply. It had been a long run from where they’d had to abandon their cars. It was going to be close. Ammunition versus reinforcements.

Another ten or so soldiers charged the hill, but the answering fire was less devastating, and Bobby actually saw and felt the spray of blood as he blew away a soldier who had somehow dodged everything but Bobby’s shot gun. In the lull, Dean yelled, “Ammo check?”

There were too many ‘Out!’s and ‘couple more, then that’s it’s. Way too many. Dean grunted and hissed for Sam and Bobby only. “We’re all down to bare bones. You got your machete, Bobby?”

Singer didn’t bother to reply verbally and Dean grinned. The soldiers below either had a death wish or were… aliens with moral guides and rationale that were.. alien but the last of the soldiers charged the hill in rush, yelling loudly. Before anyone could return fire, the soldiers fired off volley after volley of energy blasts, straight at their positions. The spear blasts were hell of a lot closer than home, and blew chunks of out their line and the hill, sending grass, dirt and blood everywhere.

Someone was screaming, and there were calls for a medic, like it was some damn war movie. Sheriff Mills wasn’t moving beside Bobby, her rifle silent, her face covered in blood. Ears ringing, Bobby rose to one knee and snapped two shots off, reloaded and then two more. As expected, the wounded aliens were still capable of fighting, and there were hell of a lot more enemies rushing them than a dozen.

Dean didn’t even pause as his rifle jammed on empty, he drew that pretty Colt and something else and stood like an idijit cowboy and fired into the soldiers. Sam was no better, calm and deadly. But their line was broken, and Bobby could hear screams from the children below as soldiers reached the top and opened fire.

Dropping his shotgun, Bobby fired away with his six shooter, making every bullet count. The screams had stopped and Bobby had to duck as a spear came far too close for comfort, the soldier coming out of nowhere. His last bullet ploughed into the man’s face and Bobby fumbled for his machete. It was a split second, less, one glance too long at Mills, her unseeing eyes, the blood soaked grass and Bobby missed the movement.

Turning too late, Bobby could only gasp as the spear entered his stomach. Reflex made him grab the smooth metal shaft, stop the forward motion and Bobby looked up into the merciless snarl of the Ori soldier. The machete felt heavy but Bobby lifted it anyway. The soldier though died in a spray of blood as Dean materialized through the smoke of burning grass and gunfire and shot him the back.

Dean stared at Bobby for a full second, torn and before Bobby could snarl or growl, the kid was gone, running towards the heat of the fight, Sam. Suddenly alone with the dead, Bobby sank down on his knees, groaning back the scream as the spear moved. He pulled the damn thing out, which was probably a bad idea, and scanned the area, half afraid to hope.

It was going to be close. There were a lot of dead, but more Ori than human. Sam and Dean were wading into the last knot of soldiers from the rear, with the last few men and women fighting kept the children alive. There were no gun shots, no spear blasts, just the cry and scream of men fighting hand to hand with blades. It was difficult to see, the burning grass making his eyes water. It had started out like something from the b-side of Hollywood sci fi, into a western and now it was Braveheart. And shit if Bobby could figure out why he was thinking about movies. There were never going to be movies again.

Clutching his belly, feeling the slow hot seep of blood, Bobby cursed the spreading weakness, and numbness. Someone screamed, like a stuck pig, high pitched and spine chilling, and then the scream abruptly cut off, followed by the distinctive thud of a head falling. You didn’t hunt vamps without knowing that sound.

Silence fell, stunned, shell shocked silence, but Bobby knew even though he couldn’t see. He knew.

Sure enough, through the smoke like the specters they hunted, Sam and Dean stalked towards him, ran more like. They were both covered in blood, arterial spray and worse. Bobby couldn’t help it, he asked, “We get ‘em?”

Sam nodded, “Yeah, but we’re down to five men, ten or so women and crap load of kids.”

“Shit.” Not much of a victory afterall. Mills, with her quick smile and long suffering sighs at the antics of Bobby Singer was gone. The wind was blowing her hair into her face, matting the blood, covering those sightless eyes.

“Hey, let me see, Bobby.”

Dean. Strong hands moving his away from the wound, making him hiss and moan. “Shit, Bobby.”

Bobby grasped those shaking, trembling hands covered in blood and dirt with his own trembling hands and gasped, “Leave it, just …”

Dean’s smile was gruesome, bright teeth in a blood covered face and he laughed, “You say one word about leaving you behind and I will punch you, Bobby.” Sam though was standing, a great big tree of worry and concern, looking up at the sky. “You hear that?”

Mouth open to say, ‘what?’ and Bobby heard it. A dull thudding hum, like… a freaking huge engine. Dean stood as well, machete suddenly in hand, like that would make a difference if it was … a spaceship. And it was. A massive, rising up over the hill, spaceship.

“Shit.”

Bobby felt what small hope he had curl up and crisp away in the fires blazing down the hill. Spaceships meant aliens… which meant… But Dean was smiling, and pointing at something, grabbing Sam’s arm. It was difficult to hear over the sound of the engines, the grass and trees twisting in the cross breeze. Everyone was pointing, and finally Bobby saw it. Painted on the bottom of the ship in bright yellow letters , ‘US Airforce’. And next to that in hot pink, ‘Eat shit and die, Ori.’

“No frigging way, man!”

There were flashes of light, then more people on the hill, appearing out thin air. People dressed in uniform, mismatched and damn wonderful to see. More flashes of light, and more people, running to help the injured, rescue the survivors. Dean and Sam were shouting at some officer over the noise, pointing back towards Sioux Falls. The officer was nodding and yelling back, but Bobby couldn’t hear over the relief pounding in his heart.

A fresh faced medic, the little red cross on her arm ran over to Bobby and he couldn’t help the smile. Her smile was less cheerful, more careful but she was swift and efficient, calling over her radio. She said quickly, “Sir, we’ve got a lot injured so you may have to wait for surgery, but you should keep. I’m going to beam you onboard and …”

“Beam? Since when is this Star Trek?” Bobby couldn’t help grousing, as she gave him a shot of morphine. Her face was grim, smile gone, “Since never again, sir. Marks, we good?”

Marks was apparently on the other end of the radio, and as she turned away, Bobby couldn’t help reaching out and hissing, “My friend… Sheriff Mills.”

The medic looked over at Mills, her face briefly sad, buried behind the mask of ‘must push on’ and shook her head. “Sorry, sir.”

Bobby had the presence of mind to take one last look at the flat grasslands of his home for more years than he’d care to recall and then white light enveloped him. It was over before it began and from the quiet, controlled panic on the hill, into the noisy, controlled panic of a triage ward. There were doctors, nurses and medics everywhere, and someone helped him to a bed, a pallet of blankets in a long row of wounded and injured.

There was a woman on his right, half her face wrapped in bandages, and she was crying silently. The man on his left was staring up at the bulk head, his black uniform charred and stiff with blood. Bobby leant back as well and wondered just when in the hell the US Air Force had got themselves spaceships.

And what was happening everywhere else on planet on Earth.

And what else the Government had been hiding all these years.

And if Rufus was ok.

And if he’d ever see his house again, or if he was going to die in a massive explosion when this ship was attacked.

But really, he could only see Mills’s face, her smile, her laugh, and the thought on the fact that she deserved a hunter’s funeral.

Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*

Bobby lost a few days in the haze of pain in waiting for surgery, surgery and post-op. In between the morphine shots that got fewer and the hospital that got more crowded, there were announcements about the Fleet fleeing Earth. About a StarGate. About the Ori. About… shit that made no sense whatsoever, but hell if Bobby cared. Between the pain, morphine and sleep, it was more of information undershare than overload.

After surgery, he woke up on a different ship, this one as tacky as all get out. Gold hieroglyphs, chintzy walls, and Bobby felt like he was maybe still in a nightmare. But the nurses looked familiar, their smiles less stiff.

Seemed there were more aliens out there than Religious Zealots Bent on Killing Us All. There were aliens who pretended to be Gods. Good aliens and bad aliens that did that. And the US Airforce didn’t just have one spaceship, they had five. And half a dozen appropriated alien ships, like this one, a Goua’ld Mothership.

There was a lot of information that Bobby was now very interested in hearing, and he asked a lot of questions, listened to the ship wide info blasts with more attention. A civilian fleet with hospital ships and supply vessels. A combat fleet trying to take on the Ori, with things called 303s and 305s. But no one, not a single nurse, could tell him what he really wanted to know. Where were Sam and Dean?

The list of survivors, refugees, from Earth was long. And kept changing as more runs were made on Earth, and people died in battle.  Everyone got excited when two more Motherships were captured, but a long, cold shadow of depression fell over the fleet when news that the Ori had found Pegasus reached the Fleet. Even the civilians who had no idea what Pegasus was, or why it was bad news, felt the pallor of despair.

Bobby was healing nicely and the nurses were asking what skills he had, how he could help once he was ready. In return Bobby asked for information, anything, on the Winchesters. On Rufus, daring to hope that his old buddy had found his way onto a ship as well. Two whole weeks after his surgery, itching and agitated to do something other than lie around, Bobby’s answer came looking for him.

Sam, with a patch on his shoulder indicating nurse, sauntered into Bobby’s recovery ward one morning and even though they were in space and it was always night, Bobby’s day brightened. Sam’s smile was everything relief and happiness and joy were supposed to be and his embrace was tight and fierce.

“Shit, kid. It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, Bobby. They said you were doing ok, but…”

Annoyed that they had known he was ok, but not he them, Singer scowled and Sam smiled. “Tried getting in to see you sooner, but it’s been… crazy. All hands on deck, as it were. If you weren’t injured, you kinda got press ganged into helping.”

“So, I see.”

Sam had a lot to say. About being a grunt, and then a stock taker until being shifted into medical. “They need all the nurses they can get. Once they’re happy I won’t kill someone, they’ll send me to the Combat Fleet.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, feeling very old and tired, “Funny how we all suddenly signed up for military service, huh?”

Sam shrugged, “Not really. Kinda… necessary. Dean’s already with Combat, fixing planes.”

Probably looking as surprised as he felt, Bobby chuffed, “What? Since when…”

Looking away, no doubt hating that Dean was out of sight, away, in danger without him, Sam shrugged again, “Need mechanics more than they need nurses. Fighting a war, and all.”

Sam couldn’t stay long, some big assed Marine on light duty yelling for him, but Bobby saw him regularly over the next few days, and they chatted late into the night a few times. Not once though during all those late night chats though did Bobby ask about who had survived, who Sam had seen. And Sam didn’t offer, not wanting to confirm what Bobby already knew.

Eventually things went from bad to worse, the Ori found the Fleet and they had to bug out. Being on board a ship taking fire was pretty damn frightening. The cool purple blue haze of hyperspace was awesome. But Earth and plans on taking it back were dropped, like charred hopes and dreams. It was run for your life.

One crash course on alien technology later and Bobby joined the maintenance crews, especially as he had a knack for dead languages. Sam had five minutes to say good bye before he transferred to Combat, and then… Bobby was on his own again.

Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*

The first time Bobby set foot on Atlantis, he couldn’t help gaping like a guppy. Most folk were gaping right alongside him.  Towers that arched up into the black expanse of space. A pale blue gas giant rotating below them, long lines of black and red clouds twisting over its surface. The fatal, icy vacuum of space held off by an invisible shield. It was breathtaking.

The walk from the _Ugly Ducker_ , the Mothership that had been his home for the last several long months, along Atlantis’s pier was …  indescribable. It was all very well being in space when all you ever saw was stars from outside a window, and gold chintz, but this… this was space.

“Bobby!”

He heard Dean but spotted Sam first, long frame easy to spot over the crowd. Dean shoved his way through the press of people gawking at the Ancient City and Gas Giant, and engulfed Bobby in a massive bear hug. The kid felt thinner, leaner, and he looked tired, face drawn. But his smile was bright and unqualified. “Shit you look good, man!”

Sam joined them and gave Bobby a less desperate hug, but no less heartfelt. Bobby grinned, and slapped Dean on the back, “I hear you’re some big wig with tech department now, Dean.”

Sam laughed and Dean rolled his eyes, “Don’t remind me, Bobby. Being the Man sucks.”

“It’s good to see you, kid.” Dean nodded, eyes suddenly bright and he shoved past all that ‘chick flick’ crap to say, “Likewise. Even though I get called names every hour, on the hour, I missed your sour mug.”

“Idijit.”

Sam picked up Bobby’s duffle, scrounged and bartered from the Quartermaster on the _Ugly Ducker,_ and containing everything he owned, and said, “Come on, we’ll show you your room.”

Smiling brightly enough to make Bobby suspicious, Dean grinned, “Yeah, Sam sold his last snickers bar to make sure you got a room near us.”

Before Bobby could protest, Sam snorted, “Only after you blackmailed de Jongh with what … late shift roster asshatery, I believe you called it.” Dean nodded and Bobby groaned, “Why on earth would I want to be anywhere near you two yahoos.”

Draping a thin, grease stained arm over Bobby’s neck, Dean smirked but failed to hide the genuine emotion, “’Cos you love us, old man and missed the shit out of us.”

And Bobby didn’t have the heart to say anything more than, “Balls.”

Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*

Atlantis ran on Old Earth Time, rather than Lantean time. Sam tried to explain the difference, but Bobby didn’t care. It just meant it was easy to fit into the rosters and schedules. And it also meant that every second Wednesday it was Karaoke Night.

Bobby managed to miss the first one by the simple fact of being on duty with Dean in the _Hammond’s_ hangar, trying to get a batch of 303s ready for CAP. The Fleet was together but it was only a matter of time before the Ori found them again and they had to be ready.

The next one though Bobby was gently escorted to by a grinning Sam and a reluctant Dean. No protests or excuses were accepted and even Dean’s protests were half hearted. The main mess hall, which was always busy, and had three counter parts across the city what with the massive refugee population, was packed. A rough stage set up, a screen and projector coaxed into working on Ancient power lines and the room was buzzing.

As was usual, Dean and Sam found a space near the back, with a wall to lean against. Dean snagged some food, something that looked sticky and sweet, and some meat pie. Sam got a round of Polish moonshine and Bobby sank down into the hard seat and prepared for a night of torture.

General O’Neill opened the night with his usual brevity, threatening to space the first man, woman or child who sang Journey, Abba or Humperdink. And then opened the floor.

Bobby sipped on the moonshine, which was the safest way of consuming the rotgut, unless one wanted to go blind, deaf and stupid, and braced himself as a passel of nerds from Engineering claimed the stage. Recognizing Zelenka and Biro only, Bobby ignored the nudge from Sam, and the whispered, “You’ll like this.”

As the opening beats of Weird Al’s _White and Nerdy_ , filled the room, Bobby couldn’t help the smile, damnit. Turned out Karoake night wasn’t so much singing, as… talent show. Zelenka was a closet rapper and this was the traditional opener for the evening. Everyone sang along. Even Dean.

And it was good. Xenobiology did a full on scene from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, costumes and all. Two squads of Marines leapt about the stage in full combat gear and tutus, in the choreographed beauty of Swanlake. Everyone whistled and cheered during a rendition of _Walk the Line_ , with shouts for Sheppard to join them, which were ignored by the grinning Colonel nearby. Some civilian turned chef got a standing ovation for _Cry Me A River_ , while Archaeology were booed off the stage when the opening bars of a Backstreet Boys song were played.

As the evening wound on, Bobby found himself singing less, laughing more and feeling very … overwhelmed. And he wasn’t the only one. There were a few wet eyes in the audience, even for crap songs like the Macarena. This was home, songs from the world, the planet, most people knew they’d never see again. Memories of friends and family either dead or missing, lost. Songs from a life and a place lost forever. Maybe.

 Dean didn’t really sing, or laugh. He was slumped over on the table, watching silently, fingers tapping along with most songs, occasionally smiling. Sam though was singing full belt, loud and clear, cheering everyone and everything, but especially any Bon Jovi song. Bobby finished Sam’s drink and slumped further into his seat. Despite O’Neill’s threat, a large rowdy group of mechanics and gophers sang _Don’t Stop Believing_ and the General waited until the cheers died down before ordering Teal’c to shoot them. Fortunately, the big Jaffa just raised an eyebrow.

The mixed bag of emotional catharsis might have gone on all night, but everyone was on long shifts, and either needed sleep or were already late for their shift, so the last act of the night, the traditional closing performance, took to the stage to a round of applause and groans. Cam Mitchell and his gate team, all Marines, all bulky and over muscled, shooed the last act off, took their positions and held up helium balloons. Sucking in a good lungful, Mitchell and team hummed in squeaky harmony and launched into _Walk like a Man_ , reaching notes and off key pitch that would have had Franke Valli turning in his grave. The roar of approval from the crowd was deafening.

Taking up the beat by pounding on the tables, everyone sang along as Mitchell crooned notes not meant for human ears and the Marines strutted up and down the stage in a parody of the Ministry of Funny Walks. The song lasted far longer than the original, but no one cared, and it only really ended once the helium was gone. The standing ovation and demands for an encore were ignored and happily the crowd dispersed.

Dean and Sam didn’t move, waiting for the press of people to leave and Bobby absently wiped at his face, refusing to acknowledge the tears. Sam bumped Dean gently and smiled, “At least Parrish and Lorne didn’t try _Immigrant Song_ again.”

Dean nodded, arms draped over the table, head on hand, elbow pressed into the formica. Rodney McKay, who Bobby had heard more horror stories about than anyone else in the Fleet, passed their table and snapped loudly, “Shift started thirty minutes ago, Winchester.” Dean’s reply was singular, and pointed, one middle finger that didn’t go down until McKay was out of sight.

“I hate him.”

Sam stood, and stretched, yawning, and said, “Come on, Bobby.”

Feeling all of his years, and all the light years from wherever the hell they were to home, Bobby frowned, “Didn’t you just finish a shift, Dean?”

“Yep.”

Sam nodded, and sighed, “Thought you were going to talk to Carter?”

Dean just stood though, and gave them a small wave as he headed out. Bobby shared a concerned look with Sam and asked, “And?”

Shrugging Sam made his way through the tangle of chairs and tables, Bobby trailing and said, “Complaining helps for one or two shifts and then there’s a crisis and only so many people who can fix shit and ….”

“Yeah…”

The walk back to their section of Atlantis dedicated to living quarters was quiet, and by the time they reached the corridor that was ‘home’, Bobby was really feeling the effects of the moonshine. “Night, Bobby.”

Looking at Sam, who was paused in motion between doorway and hall, wearing long black combat pants, a tattered old jacket and boots a size too big, Bobby sighed, “Thanks, Sam. It was …”

Sam nodded, face always so expressive, so apt for the mixed emotion of the evening and smiled, “Yeah. Night.”

“Night.”

Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*

TBC… in chapter 6

What with the dramatic events of last week, I felt a little peculiar writing this chapter. The world is a scary place without needing fictional space invasions and I hope I did the emotions justice. People fleeing their homes, in peril, always cuts me close and it’s not something you can say would never happen to you.

Dean, Sam and Bobby are fringe characters to the main drama unfolding in this story, but it is their story that I am interested in telling, rather than the main players, the ones in charge. BSG never really covered the ‘civilian’, mere ‘cog’ in the machine story to my satisfaction, and the impact of being a refugee and last remnant of humanity for the ordinary folk. I know why of course, but when you have 30 000 odd survivors, that’s a lot of personal stories with personal tragedies.

Thanks for reading  
  
[Part 1](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/11780.html)[Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14123.html)[Part 3](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/14866.html)[Part 4](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/19585.html)[Part 5 ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/26624.html)[Part 6](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/31512.html)

  



	6. Here Tomorrow, Gone Today  6/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

Here Tomorrow, Gone Today  6/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Fandom: SPN/SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if I did… there’d be less shirt-wearing.

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

AN: I have decided that the Attack took place between 4.8 and 4.9 of SPN. Thus: Sam had stopped ‘whatever’ he was doing with Ruby, but Dean hadn’t told him yet about Hell. 

This picks up immediately after installment 4 so: _Previously on Here Tomorrow…_ _The Winchesters traded devil’s traps for booze, and O’Neill found out. Something worked, so now Daniel’s intrigued and Jack has a headache. Oh and Bobby is on Atlantis._

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

“Enochian is a poorly constructed 17th century language that is a paltry imitation of an ancient language, discredited by scholars for years!” Daniel sounded just this side of petulant, which was a little surprising.

“16th century, actually and why wouldn’t an ancient ‘lost’ language to have an English translation and understandable structure for the people of the time?” Sam rebutted, arms folded across his chest.

Jackson snorted and shoved absent glasses further up his nose, “Because it’s a ridiculous notion?”

“Oh? And Latin isn’t an outgrowth of Ancient … at all! And it’s not like there are millennia between the Ancient’s return to Earth and the rise of Rome!” Sam retorted, folding his arms in defiance. There was a murmur of noise from the collected audience.

Daniel snorted, again, “Considering the lifespan of the Ancients, it is entirely plausible that their language could have influenced both Greek and Latin. Merlin’s presence alone…,”

Sam smoothly interrupted with, “And the possibility of Angels visiting 16th century magick users is implausible? “

“There’s no reliable evidence for the existence of Angels…” Jackson scoffed, to which Sam’s face creased into a similar expression of contempt. “Right! And this isn’t Atlantis and you weren’t an Ascended Being for how long? And Egyptian Gods don’t stalk the galaxy in outfits that would embarrass a Vegas showgirl!”

“The precedent of the Ancients… who have a policy of non-interference… does not by default give credence to the medieval idea of angelic messengers, let alone validate a made up language!”

“It doesn’t? Seriously? I would never have figured you as close minded, Dr Jackson.”

“Ouch, that had to hurt,” Mitchell muttered. And Jackson did look a little taken aback.

“Yeah,” Sheppard replied, not really paying attention. It was a crowded conference room, as only a possible defense maybe weapon against the Ori could cause. Everyone was there, or trying to be. Every Commander of a ship, Gate team, department and refugee group. And everyone’s attention was on Daniel Jackson, expert on Ancient Earth cultures, Ancients, Star Gates and Ascended Beings, arguing with Sam Winchester, Nurse.

Haggard faces. People looking older than they had a few months ago. Ellis still on crutches, Carter still pale and wane. General O’Neill especially was looking drawn and tired. He’d lost weight, they all had. No one wanted to miss this meeting though, even if the last few meetings had been more depressing in their lack of options. People were still trying to slip inside the conference room, adding to the press of curious, hopeful people. There was space around General O’Neill though, who was glaring at Jackson and Winchester, like folk could ‘read’ the imminent explosion in the air around Jack.

Sheppard though was looking at the other Winchester. Dean had been fairly animated at first, especially when he tried to sidetrack O’Neill by winning the ‘piss off Jack’ bet. But as it became apparent that they weren’t going to fast talk their way out of an explanation, Dean had gotten quiet and distant, and let Sam take the lead.

Sam, who was normally quiet and friendly, was happily and willingly going toe to toe with Jackson, pulling weird history and facts out of thin air. The centre of the debate was a small little book, leather bound, old, tattered – questionable. Enochian.  Sheppard had never heard of the language, let alone the controversy around it. Jackson had instantly been skeptical and if Daniel ‘I think alien’s built the pyramids’ Jackson was skeptical….

But Sam was making quite a few good points, that Daniel had had to concede to a few times. And it fit. Celestial Beings of one sort did not preclude the existence of others. In fairness though, John was more intrigued as to why Dean, who was the louder, more vocal of the brothers, was quiet. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with the topic, or embarrassed. More resigned. O’Neill was approaching meltdown as the argument continued with no end in sight and it took a lot to tip the easy going General over into ‘red’.

“Just because aliens stole the identities of ancient Gods doesn’t mean those Gods weren’t real!”

“It does if those gods were fictional to begin with!”

“Enough!”

All eyes swiveled to Jack O’Neill and Jackson opened his mouth to protest or maybe thank him, but Jack pointed at the book on the table and snapped at Sam Winchester, “Where did you get that? And what made you try out weird protection symbols on Bumfreak Planet B?”

An expectant hush fell over everyone, and Sam fidgeted slightly as the attention moved solidly to him. Even Dean was watching him, a strange sort of look on his face – kinda sad. Standing up straighter to his rather impressive height, Sam replied firmly, “We.. I found it in a second hand occult book store last year. And honestly, we didn’t know.. or think it would work. It was more of a … theory.”

“Theory?”

“What were you doing in an occult book store?”

“So you intended to con those villagers?”

Jackson and O’Neill shot withering looks at Woolsey, who refused to look abashed, and Sam was smiling indulgently at them all. Ignoring Jack’s question, Sam replied, “We made no promises, Mr Woolsey. We had nothing they wanted, and their chief mentioned protection against the Ori as a joke and we … found an opportunity to test a theory. We definitely did not try to con them – they were happy to ‘test’ it out too.”

Woolsey and O’Neill continued to trade unhappy glares and Daniel snapped again, “What theory?”

“That Ascended is the same as Celestial and if a book says that ‘these’ symbols will keep Angels from seeing or finding you, maybe it would work on Ascended Assholes as well.”

The collective body of interested parties shifted as one of the doorways where a grizzled, bearded man had pushed his way through the throng and replied gruffly, tone fully implying Jackson was an idiot. “Bobby,” Sam greeted, a small smile of relief flashing on his face. O’Neill squinted at the newcomer and growled back, “And you are?”

“Bobby Singer,” Bobby Singer answered, giving the General a considering look.

Sheppard was a little amused as both Jack and Daniel traded glances, while Woolsey huffed to himself. Dean was looking at Singer as well, an even less recognizable expression on his face. Before anyone could fire off another question, Singer said loudly, “Who in the hell cares where the symbols come from, or why they work. They do … and you’all should be thanking Sam, not grilling him like a charred steak.”

But Singer and the Winchesters were obviously not familiar with the way the former SGC command, or any military command worked. At the top, you debated and probed and questioned – everything! The answering flurry of questions and demands was a torrent of curiosity and almost immediately Singer was rolling his eyes.

In the rising noise of people arguing, Mitchell stood up to let Carter sit next to Sheppard and John smiled in greeting. She nodded, slowly and said softly, “Personally I don’t care why it works, but neither Daniel or Jack are going to let it go at that.” Sheppard nodded, and shot a look at Dean Winchester. He was slumped in his chair, fighting a yawn, and absently wiped a weary hand over his face.

Eventually, O’Neill silenced the hubbub with a sharp whistle and a ‘Shut up!’ and in the silence snapped, “Yes, it works. Streamers and confetti all around. But there is more to this and I’m not going to take on the Ori with a ‘just go with it’! You two,” and he pointed at Singer and Winchester, “are going to tell us ‘everything’ and do it sooner rather than later because it is only a matter of time before the Ori find us again. Got it?”

And it was then that there was a flash of light and a guy with wings fell out of the air above them, and landed smack in the middle of the conference table.

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

_Two days after the First Attack_

Carter woke to the quiet, familiar hum of the _Hammond_ in hyperspace.  For several, long, wonderful moments, she lay in bemused half slumber, content to laze away the seconds, before the full impact of the last 48 hours rushed into remembrance with the force of a freight train.

Ori ships in orbit. Priors and soldiers decimating civilian populations. Colorado Springs a crater of destruction. Confusion as comm. lines went down, and then despair as the trails of smoke from the D.C. area could be seen from space. Firing ineffective weapons, running from Prior controlled ships, trying to figure out what everyone else was doing. Flying low over South Dakota, trying to figure out what in the hell the next step should be and watching a group of people fighting for their lives. The decision to stop and pick them up had been automatic, instinct.

There had been no time for tears, or grief or sorrow as they fought to stay alive and rescue as many people as possible. The Ori didn’t seem intent on genocide, but they weren’t pulling any punches.

It all came rushing in, a tide of overwhelming despair. Curling over onto her pillow, Sam wept. Long, all encompassing, body shaking sobs. Kids screaming for dead parents, dragged away from scenes of death and destruction by crying Marines. The screams of 303 pilots as their planes exploded. Dead, expressionless faces of people leaving their homes and families, running for their lives. The smell of blood and vomit and urine filling the vents of the _Hammond_. A mother screaming, inconsolable, over her child, dead before they even picked them up. Her medicated, grieving silence.

They had bugged out. Run. Abandoned their world.

Was it possible to feel so much shame to be alive?

The soft pip of Andrews trying to get her attention on the shipboard comm. drew Sam back to the here and terrible now. Trying to calm down, trying to stop the tears, find the calm born from a life in the military, Carter sat up and wiped her face. But the tears weren’t stopping. Her uniform was rumpled and smelly after two days of combat. “ _Colonel? General O’Neill on the comm.”_

That was enough to get her off the bed, out of her quarters and on the Bridge faster than the tears could dry. No one said anything as their Commanding Officer ran on to the Bridge with red eyes and messed hair. They all looked the same. The comm. was radio only, and distorted, but it something deep and terrible settled inside Carter as she spoke to Jack.

It wasn’t a long conversation. Reassurance of being alive. Locations. Rendezvous point. Jackson and Teal’c on board the _Apollo._ Mitchell with him on the _Deadalus._ Sheppard with her. Atlantis gone, lost to Pegasus when their Wormhole drive kicked in.

And at the end, as Jack was winding up, Sam tried to articulate … something. Her ‘Jack’ was cut off by his, “Later, Sam.” Andrews had already altered their course and Sam quickly tied back her hair, straightened her BDU top and headed out to see the state of her crew and rescued civilians. She should have stayed on the Bridge.

It was walking into a maelstrom of emotion. Carolyn Lam had triage centres in every available space. The 303 deck was an emergency hospital ward. Sam caught a brief glance of John and Rodney arguing in the 303 bay, both covered in grease and blood, both waving tools at each other as they tried to cobble a squadron together. She left them to it. The Asgard weapons were down and she promised Bill she’d come back and help. Food was already running low, so rationing was in force. They were running out of morphine and antibiotics. Life support was stretched to the limit, they were carrying too many people than was safe.

24 hours later, Sam sat in a quiet corner near Engineering and ate an MRE, the first meal she’d had since breakfast on the day of the attack. The rendezvous had been an abortion, the Ori waiting for them. Everyone had simply flashed in and flashed straight out. Now they were waiting for contact from O’Neill again. And while they were waiting, people were dying. Not enough medicine or doctors. Non-essential areas in vacuum to save O2 with the scrubbers overworked.

It felt wrong to just sit and eat and do nothing. But she was doing it anyway. It was easier to work than to think. And right now, eating was work. Breathing was hard.

It was too soft to really make out, but as the volume grew Sam looked up, her breath catching in her throat. The store rooms leading to engineering were being used as dormitories for the uninjured civilians and Carter had been ignoring the quiet murmur of unfamiliar voices for hours as she worked on the Asgard array.

Staggering to her feet, MRE forgotten, Sam limped down the corridor, drawn inexorably like a bee to honey. She wasn’t the only one. A couple of tired, no exhausted, Airmen were hunched in the doorway, Sheppard behind them. The corridor was crowded with boxes from the store room, but inside the room, someone was playing a guitar.

Someone was singing.

_I can't believe the news today_  
Oh, I can't close my eyes  
And make it go away 

Sam shook her head as one of the Airmen made to move to let her past and she leant against a box in the corridor, hidden, the singer half seen through the doorway. It was the group from South Dakota, their first rescue followed by too few others. Everyone in the room was silent and it was the loud clear voice of the man with the guitar that had them all enthralled.

_And the battle's just begun_  
There's many lost, but tell me who has won  
The trench is dug within our hearts  
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters  
Torn apart  
  
Sheppard gave her a small smile and leant against the same box, silent and far away. What a difference 72 hours made, twelve hours, one hour…. Everything they knew… gone.  
  
 _Wipe the tears from your eyes_  
Wipe your tears away  
Oh, wipe your tears away  
  
One of the Airmen, O’Connell, was leaning on the comm. panel at the door, so that the song was being piped to the entire ship. It felt like the pause button had been pushed, a moment to just be… remember.

 _And it's true we are immune_  
When fact is fiction and TV reality  
And today the millions cry  
We eat and drink while tomorrow they die  
  
Sam didn’t care if anyone heard her croaky voice as she joined in on the last chorus, refusing to cry, again, refusing to do more than give voice to her tears.  
  
 _Sunday, Bloody Sunday_

The Airmen and Sheppard stayed as the song ended, and the man with the guitar started another. Sam though turned away, went back to her work, her engine and the simplicity of an ancient alien design. It was easier than remembering.

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

During the hard, lonely years when he was butt of several very clever and hurtful jokes, Daniel Jackson had daydreamed about the expressions of his skeptical colleagues when his theories about the pyramids were proved correct. It was petty and childish, but in those dark days before Catherine had found him and changed his life, it had been a small, petty, childish comfort.

After the Stargate, and Abydos and Sha’re, it hadn’t mattered anymore. Those professors and colleagues had been so far off his list of concerns that Daniel had barely wasted the energy to even think about their expressions. But later, when the SGC was a reality and SG-1 his family, he had daydreamed about the day when the programme was declassified and he could see their reactions.

Now, years, a lifetime of space exploration and an invasion later, those men and women who had mocked and ridiculed him where probably dead or living under an oppressive alien religious hegemony at best. No doubt though, that their expressions of stunned disbelief had been pretty damn similar to the one on his face right now when alien ships burst out of the clouds and opened fire.

It was one thing to argue and debate over the existence of mythological, imaginary beings and be proved wrong later. It was quite another to have the evidence that you were wholly and grossly wrong drop from the heavens and land on your conference room table.

There were bloody feathers everywhere.

“Castiel!”

Daniel risked a glance at Sam Winchester, but his expression was as stunned, if not more, than his own. The only person with the presence of mind to move was Dean Winchester. The man, the angel, on the table, was writhing in pain, his white wings smoking and blackened in parts. But he was moving, moving towards Dean Winchester. Across the divide of wood and stunned silence, the angel reached out and grabbed Dean’s  hand in an iron grip and gasped, “You’re.. right. They are coming.”

It was almost simultaneous.

The entire city shook as the shields absorbed an energy weapon blast and Chuck’s voice echoed through the city, “ _Ori ships dropping out of hyperspace, four, no five. Battle stations. We are under attack!”_

Sheppard was up and out of his seat, running for the control chair, pushing through the crowd. Jack was yelling orders, people were obeying. The room cleared fast, helped by Asgard transport beams back to 305s and Motherships. Jack’s order boomed throughout every ship and the city, “Bug out. Delta 1B. Now.”

Daniel stayed where he was though, as did the Winchesters, Singer and Carson Beckett. The doctor was at a loss, wanting to approach, to help but … well… it was a friggin’ angel!

“Cas?”

“I’m sorry, Dean Winchester.”

Daniel tried to make sense of the emotions flitting over their faces but the moment was lost as Atlantis jumped to hyperspace.

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

_Day Five on Atlantis_

“Why in the hell are you still here? Your shift finished three hours ago!”

Dean looked up at Rodney McKay, quirked a ‘whaddya think’ eyebrow and looked back down at the navigation unit he was fixing.

Rodney went red, counted slowly to ten, gave up at three and snarled, “You screw that unit up because you can’t see straight, Winchester and I will space your ass!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… always with the spacing of my ass.”

McKay stalked off, muttering into his almost-but-sure-as-hell-ain’t-coffee and clipboard, and Dean sighed, quietly. It was late, but it was hard to tell when you’re in space and all any window showed you was stars. But he’d sent his guys off for some food at shift end so it wasn’t like he was making anyone else work late. Just him. Sam would probably track him down shortly, bring him a bitchface and a plate of luke warm food.

Which was kinda nice.

Usually.

It was thirty minutes before Dean remembered that Sam was on the late shift in the Infirmary and that unless he got up off his own ass and got some food, none was going to miraculously appear. Putting down the nav. unit Dean sighed, yawned and rubbed his eyes all in one gruff motion. Shit, he was tired.

But the notion of whatever goop the mess had pulled together really didn’t appeal, and sure there were rumours of another food run in a few days once they were sure that no Ori were on their tail, but mystery veg-loaf was more challenge than he was feeling up to. Maybe a moonshine run…

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean didn’t even bother turning around. The brush of unseen wings, power in motion, heralding an unwelcome visitor ruffled his hair.

“Whaddya want Castiel?”

Castiel slowly walked around the work bench, stepping over the scattered remains of engine parts and spare bits and bobs. He looked more rumpled than usual, but you couldn’t tell from his expression if he was scrapping the end of the barrel.

“You know why I have returned, Dean.”

Cold, clinical bastard.

Dean scowled and sagged forward a little, head propped up in one hand, elbow pressed into the workbench. “Then you’re wasting your time. I haven’t changed my mind.”

The angel was studying the room, its tall, blue stylized walls. If Dean thought it possible, the guy looked reluctantly approving. But as Castiel turned to meet Dean’s tired gaze, none of that approval was visible. “Our efforts against the Ori are deadlocked. Neither side is making any progress. But their numbers grow. And ours diminish. You must agree.”

Dropping the screwdriver he’d been white-knuckling, Dean tried to find the energy to get angry and shout and protest as he had every other time Castiel had appeared. But he could only find the anger to snap, “No, I don’t.”

Maybe things were worse than just deadlocked because Castiel snapped back, “It would not be the first time you have capitulated, Dean Winchester. You have agreed to far worse under less favourable conditions!”

“You threatening to put me back on the rack?”

Castiel’s expression was … disquieted. And it was a good word for the douche too - disquieted. A Sam word. Hell, a damn literary genius word. Castiel was repulsed by the idea, but perhaps desperate enough to consider it. But before they went further down that twisted little garden path, Dean growled, “You cannot promise me that your plan isn’t just wiping out humanity to spite the Ori. You can’t guarantee that Sam wouldn’t be tempted by Lucifer. Hell, Cas, you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me you think it’s a good idea letting Lucifer out and hoping like hell that he fights the Ori with you. And doesn’t just betray us all.”

He couldn’t and Castiel looked down, and picked up an errant piece of broken tech. “You cannot know for certain, but I can promise you, Dean. Heaven is a better alternative for the inhabitants of Earth.”

Dean laughed, low and angry, “Great. Death or enslavement. Great options, Cas.”

“No, it is death either way. Death to serve those abominations or escape to Heaven.”

The conversation killer statement lay between them and Dean watched Castiel fiddle with the connector end of a faulty component of an afterburner. Motioning towards it, he said “It helps the 303s go faster.”

Peering at the useless piece of equipment that had to be fixed because there were no spares, Castiel said slowly, “Do you still dream of Hell, Dean? Have you told Sam?”

The spike of fear and adrenalin was so reflexive that Dean barely flinched. Alcohol was scarce, so sleep was even more so. Food ash. The need to work, keep busy overwhelming. “It reheats cooling gases inside a turbojet engine.”

Castiel put the afterburner component down and sighed, “You broke the first seal.”

“And the world was invaded by aliens.”

“Who we can defeat if Lucifer is freed to unite Hell in our cause.”

“Scorpion and the frog, Castiel.”

The ruffle of unhappy wings was both motion and sound and Castiel bristled, “You would sentence the world, humanity, to enslavement and torture.”

Dean slammed a fist down on the bench and snarled, “You want to free Lucifer and let him wear Sam! And wipe out humanity! Do you really think the Ori are going to let you take away their worshippers? Everyone dying is not a plan, Castiel!”

 “Do you really think these… people… these SGC people are going to save Earth, Dean?”

“Maybe,” Dean sighed, pursing his lips, weary. “But at least they want to.”

Castiel was holding the afterburner component again and with a deliberate motion, smashed it into the bench. “Foolish human pride. You are dooming your race.”

“Go to hell, Castiel. If you’re going to bend over and let Lucifer screw heaven and earth, at least get some practice in.”

He barely heard Castiel leave but the room immediately felt emptier, less. Atlantis was stationery, a white point in space, off the Star Gate grid, laying low. People talked like they were the last remnants of humanity here on Atlantis, even though there were people still on Earth. Just no one knew what was happening to them.

Dean did. Thanks to Castiel. And thanks to Castiel Dean felt the weight of those lives squarely on his shoulders. Ten years in hell. Humanity saved to Heaven. Escape from the half life of pain, fear and regret - and soul crushing shame.

He wasn’t between a rock and hard place – he was still in Hell.

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

Wings. The man had wings.

Carson was tempted to cross himself even though he had never been a religious man, and his mother would have laughed to see it. Great bloody wings.

Dean Winchester looked up and waved Carson over. “Doc.”

Where to start, what was hurt, how can an angel be hurt? Carson moved with deceptive efficiency covering his nerves. “Where are you hurt, sir?”

The angel was wearing clothes, a smoldering trench coat and tattered suit. The blood was splattered, like arterial spray and there was a lot of it. Carson tentatively touched a pale wrist and felt for a pulse. Castiel arched up off the conference table and screamed. Carson crashed backwards into the chair behind him in shock.

“Cas?”

Dean was holding the angel down on the table, stopping him from writhing off, “What’s going on, Cas?”

The angel’s pale, sweat drenched, bloody face grimaced in agony and he groaned, “Ori.. they… hurt… the sigils.”

Sam and Bobby Singer were moving before Carson or Jackson could even process the agonized words. Sam had a sharpie and was scrawling symbols on the walls, while Bobby was doing the same with can of grease. Dean ripped open Castiel’s shirt and started painting a wide, complex circle on his chest. As more and more symbols were drawn, the angel slowly stopped thrashing, grew quiet and subsided. Carson could only stare for so long, before he moved as well, but towards his patient and began assessing the wounds. Stab wounds, burns, claw marks.

Sam Winchester drew one last symbol that completed the circumference of the room and like a switch being thrown, Castiel collapsed, spent. No longer in pain. Daniel, who had been copying the symbols on the conference table in his own pen, looked up just in time to see the wings disappear. A spray of bloody feathers remained.

“What the hell?”

Carson looked at Dean and said sharply, “I need my kit. He’s losing, has lost a lot of blood. Can we move him?”

Dean shook his head, hands now more gentle, soothing on the angel’s shoulders, “Probably not, Doc.” Carson nodded and tapped his radio, “I need plasma and a medkit, now.”

Daniel, Sam and Bobby drifted back towards them and in the expectant silence of ‘what now’, Castiel groaned a deep echo of profound grief, “Heaven has fallen. We were betrayed. I… you were right.” Unaccountably, it was Dean who started to cry, tear poised in eyes like bottomless pools. “Cas….”

Passing out seemed like the logical, human thing to do, which was what Castiel did. Carson looked around, saw the same shattered emotions on everyone’s faces and swallowed.

S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N* S*G*A*S*P*N*

But I won't heed the battle call  
It puts my back up  
Puts my back up against the wall

Fin

  


  



	7. Here Tomorrow, Gone Today  7/8 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

Here Tomorrow, Gone Today 7/8 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Fandom: SPN/SGA

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if I did… there’d be less shirt-wearing, more punch ups and a larger special effects budget. Luckily, my brain doesn’t need one.

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

AN: I have decided that the Attack took place between 4.8 and 4.9 of SPN. Thus: Sam had stopped ‘whatever’ he was doing with Ruby, but Dean hadn’t told him yet about Hell. So early season 4 Winchesters and near the end of Season 9 SG1.

_Previously on **Here Tomorrow** …_ _The Winchesters traded devil’s traps for booze, and O’Neill found out. Enochian sigils bamboozle Priors but Daniel says that doesn’t make sense. Cas proves Sam’s point by face planting onto the table and then the Ori arrive. Oh, and Heaven has fallen._

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Jack had a plan. He really did. Everyday at least one person, worried about themselves or their family or Earth or their next meal, would track him down and ask him. Do you have a plan, General O’Neill? And the answer was always, yes. You bet. Definitely.

But that was all the answer you got. Nothing about what the plan actually was. Loose lips sink floating ancient cities, afterall. You could ask, but you’d leave feeling less than reassured. No amount of scathing looks or heated words could persuade Jack to reveal the details of ‘the plan’. It bounced off him like bugs on the Gate Iris.

Problem was, Jack did have a plan. A good plan. A great plan in fact. One that was a real winner and not the usual fly by the seat of your pants and hope Teal’c or Carter saves the day plan. It was stellar. Stalled, but stellar.

The command staff knew why secrecy was so important, they bought into it 100%. With hundreds of refugees, both civilian and military, it was difficult to trust, be certain that there was ‘no’ spy on board. Secrecy so paranoid it made the cold war look like a mild disagreement over toilet paper was the order of the day. But all the secrecy and secret missions and secret meetings and secret kitchen raids in the galaxy couldn’t get ‘the plan’ moving.

At first they had thought that tracking down Merlin’s lab would be fairly easy. However, fighting a running battle with the Combat Fleet and trying to keep the Civilian Fleet alive had made that a little more difficult than expected. Once everything had settled down and Atlantis found them, it should have been easy. It wasn’t. Merlin and his damn lab were still lost, as was their chance at taking out the Ori. Plan B was the Ark of Truth. Secret away missions 35 to 42 had given them the location of the Ark. The Ori galaxy. They didn’t have a lot of options, and the first attempt at the Supergate would be the only attempt. Teal’c had some of the Jaffa scouting the Supergate periodically, waiting for an opportunity. None had arisen. So... the Plan was ‘in limbo’. Just waiting for a break.

Too bad the Ori found them before the break did.

Jack had figured there was a good chance that this would end tragic and bloody. More than good. The Ori didn’t mess around and their persistence in hunting the Fleet hinted that they were worried too. You don’t leave live enemies behind you. And you certainly don’t leave your arch nemesis in a poorly constructed cage suspended over sharks with lasers on their heads and the key to the cage within MacGyvering distance. You shot him in the head. Or in the case of the Ori, hunted and pursued until you found them and attacked.

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To say that the situation on Atlantis was a little fraught was to be entirely inaccurate. Things were... extreme. Five Ori ships on their tail, so close behind them in hyperspace you could feel them breathing on your neck. And it seemed the Ori could transport themselves whilst travelling in hyperspace. If Sheppard hadn’t been fighting for his life, he’d be making mental notes for the argument with Rodney later.

It was only Priors so far, but that was like it being only one nuclear bomb. It sure as hell was enough.

He was hunkered down inside the makeshift school the handful of children on Atlantis used sporadically. Ronon was pressed flat on the opposite side of the doorway, trading shots with the Prior stalking down the hall. Ammunition was low, so Sheppard was waiting for his shot.

The engineering teams had been preparing for this day like good little boy scouts and there were Prior disruptors, hundreds of them, scattered all over the city. They just took time to work though and while the Priors weren’t the fastest off the draw, but they packed plenty of punch. The Prior outside though was slowing down, Ronon and the few Marines concerted stunner fire was taxing him as the disruptor worked. Sheppard spotted his chance and took the shot. The back of the Prior’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain and he dropped like a stone. Leaving the body check to the Marines, Sheppard and Ronon ran off, heading towards the heat of the battle, the Gate Room.

There were no more drones, and Lorne was in the chair now, flying the City trying to eek a little more gumption from the old girl, urging her to pull away from the ships. The Ori had lost three ships already, but each one had been replaced and while all five were damaged, they were still in pursuit. But luckily their bombardment on the City was countered by the shield. It just didn’t stop them sending in boarding parties. They wanted something... someone maybe.

Sheppard spotted Teyla and her team of civilians laying down suppressing fire while a pair of Marines tried to take out a Prior. Ronon was already swerving unerringly towards them, his blaster red hot and firing steadily. The Prior went down in a hail of bullets as his shield collapsed, and then their reinforcements swelled from two to ten.

The chatter on the comm. was frantic as defence teams scrambled to protect pockets of civilians. Chuck was in full air traffic control mode, a steady calm voice of deployment in their ears. But there were too many teams not checking in and too many dead zones. Sheppard and his posse had to race up the stairs to reach the Gate Room, and by the time they grew close, Chuck was sounding strained, his voice breaking as he called for check ins.

Sheppard tapped his comm., “Sheppard and eleven others, five mins from the Gate room.”

“ _Hurry, Colonel,”_ was all Chuck had time to say, before more teams continued to check in.

“John,” Teyla was breathless, her face red with adrenalin and fear. Sheppard paused long enough to twist his lips into something that may have resembled a smile. Somewhere, maybe, Dave was alive. His brother was a practical man, not given overly much to religion. In order to survive, he’d convert to Origin, or appear to. Nancy though, and Greg the replacement husband were in all likelihood dead. Washington was a crater, as was Colorado Springs. Rodney had high hopes that Canada had escaped the severity of the US attacks, hoped that Jeannie and Madison were alive. Everyone on Atlantis had ridiculous, deluded hopes like that. But Teyla? Teyla knew with utter certainty that her family were safe, alive, well, on New Athos.

She’d never asked to go home, not once.

A deep, fierce love for her twisted Sheppard’s heart and he wished she had, just once.

He had no idea where Rodney was, and as they reached the Gate Room floor, he wished he was with them, and not somewhere trying to milk more power out of the hyperdrive engines. The Gate Room was controlled panic.

O’Neill and Jackson had placed the largest number of disruptors in the Gate Room, creating a killing zone. And it was just that. Priors were popping in steadily, beaming in from the ships outside and O’Neill had a hellfire welcoming party waiting for them.

Unfortunately, it was a welcoming party running out of ammunition. The moment they arrived, O’Neill’s sharp voice directed them to the gaps in the defence and Sheppard opened fire. Forced to defend themselves automatically and unable to ‘pop’ in anyway else but the space just before the Gate, the arriving Priors were standing on the bodies of those who fell.It was a race, whoever ran out of weapons first.

Sheppard couldn’t really see from his angle, but the doors to the conference room were still shut. He wasn’t the only one glancing up there, wondering. Sam Winchester was in the defensive line, firing steadily, calmly, normally. There was no sign of Dean. Or the angel.

The last Prior fell and was not replaced and stunned silence fell. His ears ringing in the aftermath of the noise, Sheppard didn’t even bother hoping. That was too easy.

Sure enough, as if she knew her timing, lines and part to a tee, the Orisi appeared with a concussive blast, knocking everyone flying. Teal’c was the first to recover and his staff weapon fired methodically at her. To no avail. With an idle flick of her first, the Orisi disarmed him and before anyone else could respond, she said sharply, “Enough. I wish to parlay.”

Like a jack rabbit, Jack’s head popped up from behind the console on the upper balcony and he yelled, “Parlay? You do know that means talk and no more fighting?”

Her smile was cold, inhuman, but she replied coolly with, “Yes. I do.”

“Chuck?”

Jack didn’t take his eyes off the Orisi, or stop pointing his P90 at her, as he waited for Chuck to respond. “All teams reporting in, sir. No Priors, er, alive or in sight.”

The perfectly beautiful eyebrow of disdain marked the Orisi’s impatience and Jack stood slowly, “Ok, so let’s parlay. My first question, are you a fan of Jack Sparrow?”

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Castiel was unconscious on the conference room table. Before all hell broke loose, Carson had been able to insert two IVs and check the man’s vital signs.

But as the battle heated up and help was needed elsewhere, first Carson, then Jackson and then Sam and Bobby left, leaving Dean alone with Castiel.

It was disconcerting being out of the loop, left behind, but Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to leave Castiel. The guy had made the last couple of months utterly miserable for Dean, but he kinda grew on you, in a nerdish, social leper kinda way.

So Dean kept watch, for what he didn’t know, but watch nonetheless he did. There was a lot of noise outside but no one had left him a comm., so he had no real idea what was happening. Sam though had left him with several guns, including one with salt rounds and a silver knife. If heaven had fallen then there wasn’t much a good knife could do, but Dean felt better for it. Priors had been seen in the City and that didn’t bode well.

Things were just starting to heat up outside, a steady stream of rapid machine gun fire and stunner blasts, when there was a barely audible knock on the conference room door and General Jack O’Neill stuck his head in. Half expecting the visit, Dean was on his feet, ready to meet whatever barrage that would follow. Jack scanned the room with its scrawled sigils and grinned darkly, “You got a minute?”

“Sure,” Dean replied and resisted the urge to take a step back. O’Neill though slipped in and quickly shut the door behind him, like he was nervous. Turning slowly, the General stared unabashedly at Castiel before saying, “I gotta say, of all of the plot twists out there, this one is the one I never expected.”

Dean had nothing to say to that, and Jack didn’t give him time to reply anyway. “God and I parted ways years ago, and I’m not convinced this means anything much for that. But we have more pressing issues, Winchester.”

“Yep,” Dean replied, unconsciously fingering the trigger on his colt. Jack sighed, “You have a visitor outside, who might I add nearly got himself shot. Falling out of the cupboard in my office has that effect on me.”

Caught off guard, Dean’s face crumpled in confusion and he stammered, “What?”

“I just.. wanted to.. he says he’s an old friend, and gave you a head’s up on aliens years ago. Kinda goofy looking.”

Several things clicked into place and Dean felt his anger rise but he nodded, because time really was of the essence. Jack opened the door a crack and sure enough, the Trickster slipped through, followed by an exotic looking lady who oozed ‘touch me and die, hell look at me wrong and I’ll eat you.”

“Well, howdy there, Dean. Long time no see,” the Trickster beamed, oily smile firmly in place. He closed the distance to the table and peered at Castiel, gleeful expression kinda slipping. He was decked out in camo gear, face smeared with paint. Dean though bit out, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, the usual. On the run, laying low, playing it cool. You?” The Trickster idly ran a finger through the sharpie sigils on the table and smirked, “Cute.”

Dean though, and Jack who was looking curious but impatient, snapped, “Still wondering why you’re here and how you found us?” The woman, her expression dark snapped, “Stop wasting time, Loki. If they areof no use as usual, we must go. She’s coming.”

Smiling a doting puppy love grin at her, the Trickster crooned, “Kali, my love. My little kitten of death, would you just take a chill pill for five seconds?” Kali glowered, her red fingernails sharp and glinting, but the Trickster turned back to Dean and sighed, “Look, bucko. Castiel here has been talking up a storm for months, years, ok, only months that you and you human band of runaways have a plan. So... what’s the plan?”

“You know Cas?” Dean stammered, pointing his gun at both Cas and the Trickster, who rolled his eyes and made hurry up motions. “Stating the obvious is not helping the time issue, Deano. Yes, I know Cas. Kali knows Cas. Cas knows us. While you lot have been playing hide and seek with the floating toilet bowls, we’ve been a happy family of united resistance of all local deities back on the ole homestead.”

“I’ve met Loki. You’re not Loki,” Jack interrupted and the Trickster, Loki, flapped a hand at him. “Please, people have been impersonating me for years. Just because some pasty, bug eyed race of dying aliens pretended to be me, doesn’t mean I am not me. Where the hell do you think I got the slow dance idea from anyway?” The last question was directed at Dean, who scowled, but shrugged.

“So, you old God types have been fighting the Ori with Heaven?” Dean said, wincing at a particularly loud explosion outside. Kali growled, “Enough! They do not have a plan and unless we plan on dying with them we must go, Loki.”

Jack, ever the man of perfect timing, interjected, “There’s an ark. The Ark of Truth. It’s supposed to show people the truth about the Ori, get them to stop believing in Origin. The fewer people who believe in the Ori the better as their power decreases.”

A cunning sort of light gleamed in Loki’s eyes and he snapped his fingers. “Really? How very Raiders. So where is it and why aren’t you, you know, blue pilling the deluded masses?”

Resting his hands on the P90 hanging from his tac vest, Jack shrugged, “Because it’s on the Ori homeworld, in their galaxy and ...”

Loki, a bright, beautiful smile on his face clapped his hands together and grabbed Kali’s hand. “Dollface of Death, we got treasure to loot.” They were out the door and gone before Jack or Dean could gather enough air to protest or complain. Alone now with a sleeping angel between them, Jack stared at Dean and said, “They actually going to get it? You seem to know a lot of ... interesting people.”

In all honesty, Dean had no clue, so he just shrugged and then Jack was called away. He left, a lingering look promising a long detailed conversation if they survived.

Dean fully expected to never have that conversation.

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Bobby grabbed Sam as they left the conference room. Several Marines and soldiers nearly knocked them over as they ran past, and Bobby hauled Sam into a small corner, made all the more smaller for Sam’s bulk. “What, Bobby? We got incoming Priors.”

“Yeah, yeah, did you know, Sam?”

Sam’s face was blank for a second before he grimaced, “That Castiel was around, no.” Bobby sighed and ran a shaky hand over his beard. “Why the hell didn’t Dean say something?” Sam shrugged, a muted, contained anger in his eyes, his large frame vibrating with adrenalin. He snapped, “Who the hell knows, Bobby. Dean isn’t... hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about a lot of shit recently. He hardly sleeps, and he thinks I haven’t noticed. And it’s not just the workload, its nightmares and Hell and ...” Sam trailed off, suddenly looking lost and furious in the same instant.

“Yeah...” Bobby sighed, and watched the military folk scrambling, preparing for the coming attack. “We need... I...” Bobby stopped, gathered himself, shoved everything else aside and stared at Sam, firmly. “After this, we’re sitting him down and he’s talking. You got it?”

Sam nodded, “I got it.”

They clasped hands briefly before Bobby ran off. The transporter was still working, so he hopped in with a few other civilians and indicated where he needed to go. Everyone had a designated spot during an attack. The brass ran enough drills that even the kids knew where to go. And if you worked on a ship even sporadically, you got to practice their drills too.

Bobby was assigned to a protection detail and he sure as hell didn’t mind. Not vital enough to be in a strategic area, but competent enough to be armed and given a point to hold. As Bobby ran through the squat building assigned for his group of refugees, he felt his heart skip a little at the palpable fear inside the building. There were a few soldiers with him, mostly the walking wounded, along with a good bunch of armed civilians, but if the Ori sent soldiers directly at them, they didn’t really have a chance.

Atlantis rocked as the first volley of shots from the Ori ships hit. A Prior materialised right in the middle of the corridor, and a wail of screams from those nearby rattled the walls along with the next volley. Bobby didn’t hesitate, he opened fire and he wasn’t the only one. The disruptor in the building worked and before the Prior could do more than wave his staff, he was down, full of bullet holes. But he wasn’t the last, and another appeared almost immediately.

Bobby had long since run out of ammunition when he made the call. Five dead priors and more dead soldiers and as the final Prior breathed its last, Bobby yelled, “Now, go go go.”

No one needed to be told again, and mothers picked up children too slow, and everyone ran. Bobby covered their rear. As the crowd of refugees turned a corner, Bobby caught a glimpse of one, and then two Priors appearing behind them, before they were lost to view. “Straight to the hangar, now.”

Bobby tapped his comm., and reported in, “Sector 2 retreating to secondary location.”

Chuck acknowledged, “ _Sector 2, avoid Buildings G and J, go around the Science block.”_

By the time his group reached the large jumper hangar bay near the control tower, they weren’t the only group trying to get in. Bobby nearly lost his people in the press but once they were inside, he pulled them towards the rear, and his own workstation. The kids, old and young were crying, and clutching their parents. The noise level in the hangar was exploding as more people arrived. The population of Atlantis wasn’t all that big, and pretty soon everyone not directly fighting would be here.

Bobby hip checked his tool box and as the drawers sprung open, he pulled out handfuls of sharpie markers. Handing them to the kids, he pointed to the sigils all around the walls and said sharply, “Start drawing kids, everywhere you want. Copy it exactly. The Ori don’t like ‘em.”

The last group was in and a couple of military officers closed the doors behind them. No one said anything about the huge sigil drawn across the blue surface. The rumour mill on Atlantis was like lightning and while folk might not know the whole picture, they knew enough. There were a few screams as the building shuddered as Priors outside tried to blast their way in. Bobby picked up a can of grease and started painting a large sigil on the wall nearby. Dean had been paranoid and the hangar was covered in a variety of sigils.

Completing the curve and twist of a line, Bobby caught out of the corner of his eye, people copying him, painting with anything handy. Snorting to himself, Bobby yelled over the noise of the aerial bombardment, “It needs to be exact, just like this, ok?”

No one answered but it would have been difficult to hear if they did as a massive explosion rocked the City. Everyone paused, breathless with anticipation, clutching weapons and paint tins.

In the silence Bobby’s thoughts turned to Castiel. Then the world tipped on its head.

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“Dean Winchester?”

“Cas?”

“I ... hurt.”

“Well you kinda fell pretty hard there, buddy.”

“Fell?”

“Not that kind of fall, at least I don’t think.”

“Where?”

“Atlantis.”

Cas blinked long and slow, his thick black hair pressed against his forehead, curled into sweat induced spirals. “Ori...”

“Yeah, they’re on our ass. Guess you riled ‘em up.”

“Heaven...” Cas’s lips were broken and cracked, a long thick scab of blood breaking open, pale bright red blood welling on the edges.

“Fell, yeah... got that part. Little careless of you guys leaving the back door open.”

Another ponderous blink, like the change of seasons. “I locked the door.”

“What? Like the actual Pearly Gates? I thought....”

“Not always your strong point.”

“Nice.”

Long, blood stained fingers curled into a fist, uncurled as if indecisive, or pre-emptive. “For his freedom Lucifer promised the Keys to Heaven. His agent, Uriel, was tortured. The Ori... claimed the celestial plane, drove out the Host, but the Gates...”

“Still locked. And you have the key.”

A twitch of lips, a glint of bloody teeth. “Keys.”

Dean’s smile was broad and proud.

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Daniel hadn’t expected to miss Vala. He worried about her, wondered if she was safe, ok or even alive. But considering how annoying she had been, and the amount of the drama she had brought to his life, all of their lives, he found himself missing her at strange moments.

Watching Jack walk down the staircase to talk with the Orisi, Daniel couldn’t help wondering where Vala was. Was she on one of the ships outside? Atlantis was still hurtling through space, Major Lorne at the helm. They couldn’t meet up with the Fleet, not with the Ori in tow. 

There was an uneasy shuffle of feet as the Marines made a path for the General and the Orisi looked down her long elegant nose at Jack, who beamed insincerely.

“You called this little party, lady. Start talking.”

No one was relaxing and both Sheppard and Mitchell were talking softly into their comms, ordering redeployments, taking advantage of the break. The Orisi’s knowing smile revealed their failed effort for secrecy, she was well aware of what they were up to. “General. The Ori have no wish to destroy you...”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe. You’ve been very persistent, Orisi.”

Her smile was vicious, pleased and she purred, “You’ve been very elusive. But pursuit does not mean intent to harm. We wished only to talk, to give you a chance to repent...”

“Cut the crap, lady,” Jack snapped, his face hard. A murmur of agreement rumbled through the gathered fighters and the Orisi smirked, unimpressed, unintimidated. “We wish the galaxy, all the galaxies to be united in peace, in the peace of Origin, General, I...”

Jack snapped up his P90, eyes thin with anger, “If all you’re going to do is preach, then I have my answer ready. Parlay, or take a hike.”

Her smile was sly, “You have a ... fugitive on board, General. A being from another plane. I require him.”

“No idea who you’re talking about. Let’s talk about you giving back Earth.” Jack smiled his own crocodile smile and the Orisi sighed. “Don’t be tiresome, Jack. Earth is ours. The galaxy is ours.”

“And yet here you are, asking for a favour. Tsk, tsk, losing your touch there, my dear.”

Sighing and adopting a very put upon air, the Orisi yawned broadly and Daniel felt the ground move beneath his feet, figuratively this time. Something was wrong. Heart thudding with sudden prescience, Daniel slipped out from behind cover and moved closer, ignoring the motions of the men and women around him to stay put and yelled, “She’s waiting for something, Jack!”

O’Neill was fast, but not fast enough and the Orisi laughed, sharp and high and the world tilted. Atlantis rocked to one side, engines still firing and then dying, and they dropped out of hyperspace. Daniel and everyone else on the upper level fell backwards, head first straight towards the massive doors and windows. There was sporadic shooting, a lot of yelling and when Atlantis finally righted herself, the deep black of space was pressing in at the windows. There was shouting and calls of ‘Let him go!’

Staggering to his feet, Daniel limped forward, rubbing his head, fumbling for his gun and stopped, frozen. The Orisi had Jack and a couple of men pinned to the staircase, slowly choking them with invisible hands. Sheppard, Ronon and Mitchell were on their feet, yelling at her to let them go, and the Orisi was just smiling.

Chuck, underneath a console was relaying reports of more Priors beaming in and Daniel was torn, caught in amber, between thought and action. 

Ronon fired at the Orisi, she idly tossed him aside and the room filled with white, blinding light.

Half certain he’d wake up somewhere else, Daniel blinked to clear his vision and then blinked again for everything to make sense.

“Hello, mother. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Vala, resplendent in royal blue, poised, dignified and regal snorted loudly and spat, “Oh, bite me.”

The Orisi, still slow choking half the room, glared at her mother, and as she did so, realised Vala wasn’t alone. “You!”

A small man in camo grinned widely and flipped her the bird. “It’s been too long,” he smirked and opened a large box... an ark like box! Daniel took two long steps forward and snatched up a Prior staff, thinking ahead, hoping. As the room flooded with white light for the second time, Daniel sent up a silent prayer, to whoever was inclined to listen. The Orisi shrieked and he felt the staff shudder in response and light up, a brighter light even in the blinding haze.

It lasted a heartbeat, an age, a breath of a second, a millennium.

The room faded into view, the colours bleeding back into the world, blues and yellows and the bright, bright red of the Orisi’s dress. She was rattled, her composure gone, face pale, eyes black. “No, no, no... no!”

She whirled, snarling and ugly and her imperious gesture sent Vala and the little man flying. If they didn’t travel as far as before, it made very little difference. They both landed with the sickening crunch. One second she was framed by the Gate and the next she was at the conference room door. Before Daniel or anyone could move, the Orisi raised a zat and fired once, twice, three times.

Daniel’s vantage point was just perfect. Right angle. Unobstructed view. As the doors disintegrated, and the Orisi moved forward, Dean Winchester rose from the floor with coiled grace and sank a long, silver spear into her chest.

Mouth open in a hollow of shock, the young Orisi clutched at the blade, beautiful delicate hands covering Winchester’s, flittering like struggling birds. The angel was sitting up, shirt in tatters, chest bloody, errant feathers dotting the table. Winchester’s expression was torn, jaw hard, lips thin, but eyes uncertain, darting across her face. No one moved in the frozen moment, no one but the Orisi who gasped. Vala made an aborted move forward, held back by the man in camo.

Hands stilled, mouth closed, eyes rolled back and the Orisi fell and Dean let her fall, a boneless sprawl of red within red, dress and blood pooling together.

It was Vala who broke the moment, a bitten off sob, hand over mouth and everyone breathed, gasped, as if released from a spell. Chuck, still jacked in, began relaying the news, and through his comm., Daniel heard the reports of Priors disappearing, collapsing.

Jack climbed to his feet, slowly, gingerly, rubbing his neck.

“Real dramatic, Deano. You got a real flair for it. See you ‘round.”The small man’s voice was loud, and he winked, pinched the butt of the bulky Marine next to him and vanished.

With impeccable timing, the _Hammond_ flashed into view out of the window, the incoming hyperdrive cloud exceptionally close to the city and Daniel reflexively stepped back as the ship buzzed the Tower. More flashes as the rest of the Fleet dropped in, a sight for sore eyes. An Ori ship outside exploded as the _Hammond_ fired and the others bugged out, but not before another exploded.

Jack tripped up the stairs and winced and Daniel caught him. Accepting the help, Jack straightened, pointed at Dean Winchester and growled, “You got a lot of ‘splaning to do, Lucy.”

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Castiel liked the infirmary. It was quiet, peaceful. Ordered even when there was chaos and motion. People knowing their place, doing what was required without being told, but still following orders.

There was no chaos now, just aftermath. People being quiet, grateful, offering up prayers. Castiel liked healers. Their compassion, warmth and affinity for grace. The little Scottish doctor confused him though. Castiel wanted to talk to Dean but Dr. Carson appeared to be deaf when it came to those requests. He spoke a great deal faster than Dean, filling the air with words, blurring together like a maze. His words were brisk, but his hands gentle. Nervous but fearless. Worried but self-assured.

No one else approached him and this Castiel understood, accepted. The lingering looks were to be expected, but he really wanted to speak to Dean. It was early morning, but since no one had actually slept bar the lucky few, it was a hushed, sleepy morning. Many injured, too many dead. A busy nursing staff. A people gathering themselves, picking up the pieces once again. Taking stock.

He stood head and shoulders over everyone, so Castiel had no trouble seeing him coming, but Sam Winchester was not the Winchester he wanted, needed to speak to. Perhaps he could summon Dean.

“Sam.”

“Castiel.”

The human was ill at ease, shifting about, but his forehead was furrowed, determination leaking through. “You doing ok?”

“I will heal. Eventually. It is ... an unusual experience, one that I am not enjoying.”

“Sure,” Sam nodded, fidgeting, biting his nails, and then realising what he was doing, stopped. “I, ah, Dean... there’s a lot of talking and explaining going on. We’ve stopped to ... have breakfast and Dean sent me...”

“I wish to speak to him, Sam Winchester.”

“You and everyone else.”

“I will wait then.”

Sam nodded again, slow, and sighed, “Can... is Heaven, er... ok?”

“I do not know, but I must believe it is secure for now. The Ori are diminished but not gone. You are returning to Earth?”

Sam shook his head, “No idea, maybe. I think General O’Neill wants to figure things out first but ah...”

“Say what is on your mind, Sam.”

All too knowing, weary eyes met Castiel’s and some of the pretence slipped away. Sam the hunter emerged, the man willing to sacrifice everything, even his own soul, stared back at him. The sheets were worn, smooth and they felt fragile beneath Castiel’s hands. “Is it true?”

Truth, despite human arrogance, is not relative. It is however, varied in depth and application. Castiel quirked an eyebrow, and Sam supplied clarification, “The whole thing, the apocalypse, Michael, Lucifer. That.”

Feeling an unexpected spark of amusement, Castiel murmured, “Dean is being as obstructive and obtuse as ever, I see.”  
  
“Stubborn more like. Secretive.”

“Like you.”

Castiel met Sam’s heated gaze without flinching, unphased by the would-be vessel of Lucifer. “Lilith...”

“You are a fool, Sam Winchester to believe a demon over your own brother.” Sam’s eyes flared with anger but Castiel pressed on, “As was I, for doubting him.”

Sam turned on his heel, his hands clenched in his hair, mouth parted in deep emotion. “He won’t talk to me, Castiel. Not for weeks, months now. Small things, sure, but not what’s going on in his head or with you or...”

Castiel held up a hand, and blinked at the pain that ran through him and sighed, “Ignorance is preferable to error; and he is less remote from the truth who believes nothing, than he who believes what is wrong."

A quick quirk of a grin, and Sam asked, “Nieztch?”

“Thomas Jefferson.” Castiel shifted on the bed and yawned. Jaw snapping closed, he said carefully, steadily, “I am certain, Sam Winchester, that your brother will eventually tell you all, once he is ready. And I feel that there is more to this matter, these events, than he has revealed. A third player if you will.”

“Who?”

Castiel projected as much ignorance as he dared, “If I knew ...”

“You still wouldn’t tell me?”

Shaking his head, Castiel corrected, “Hopefully I would understand Dean better, too.”

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

Sheppard found Rodney in the Chair Room. McKay was a mess, hair mimicking Zelenka’s, jacket sprayed with blood, and grease. He was staring at the Chair, running a tablet through his hands, turning it over and over, mind far away.

“McKay?”

The room was totalled, cables and crystals all over the place, some still sparking, reeking of smoke and ozone. “Why are we still alive, John?”

“Dumb luck?”

Rodney huffed, wrung out, worn out, “That wasn’t funny five years ago.”

Sheppard closed the distance between them, picking his way through the debris, feeling light headed and a little out of it. “The mess is pulling a breakfast together.”

“Bacon and eggs.”

“Only if you pretend very hard.”

McKay wilted a little and Sheppard draped an arm over his shoulders, “Come on. You and Carson can trade insults while you eat and he tries to practice his craft.”

“Are we going home, Sheppard?”

The tablet in his hands was cracked, broken beyond repair. There were no replacements, and Rodney, despite his protests to the contrary got quite attached to his toys. Sheppard gently took it from him and put it carefully on the ruined console. “I’m sure she’s ok, Rodney.”

“You don’t know that, not for certain.”

Nodding, unable and unwilling to deny it, John sighed, “Surprisingly enough, I’m finding it a little easier to have some faith right about now.”

McKay snorted, “Trust you needing an actual angel.” Rodney straightened, pulling himself together, patching over the holes in the armour, forcing a smile. “Oat porridge?”

“Only if you pretend real hard.”

“I hate you.”

“That really stings, McKay.”

“Go tell, Carson, I’m sure he has some alternative medicine mud to soothe your wounded pride.”

“Probably.”

They stood there a moment longer, staring at the Chair, listening to the buzz of life continuing on the comm. If Rodney was a little red eyed, and trembling, Sheppard ignored it and once McKay was ready, he snapped, “Coffee? Tell me there is coffee at least.”

“Only if you...”

“Shut up!”

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

TBC – one last time J

AN: I hope you liked this. Not as depressing, but I hope it all made sense. I fear it reflects my own despondent mood. There will be one last chapter, a lighter, happier one, and then... no more. J

  



	8. Here Tomorrow, Gone Today 8/8 (SGA/SPN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, maybe not. But this rollercoaster ride of a fic is done J Here are my reason why. I wrote chapter one as a one shot, I really did. I had no idea where to take this story after chapter one and I don’t like not knowing the end before I start a fic. So, writing these updates has involved some deep thought at times. I know the story isn’t finished and I know there is plenty to fill out.

Here Tomorrow, Gone Today 8/8

Author: Tari_roo

 

Rating: PG (Gen)

 

Fandom: SPN/SGA

 

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if I did… there’d be less shirt-wearing, more punch ups and a larger special effects budget. Luckily, my brain doesn’t need one.

 

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5

 

AN: I have decided that the Attack took place between 4.8 and 4.9 of SPN. Thus: Sam had stopped ‘whatever’ he was doing with Ruby, but Dean hadn’t told him yet about Hell. So early season 4 Winchesters and near the end of Season 9 SG1.

 

Previously on Here Tomorrow… The Winchesters traded devil’s traps for booze, and O’Neill found out. Enochian sigils bamboozle Priors but Daniel says that doesn’t make sense. Cas proves Sam’s point by face planting onto the table and then the Ori arrive. Oh, and Heaven has fallen. The Ori attack, the Trickster finds the Ark, Dean stabs the Orisi in the face, and Cas ends up the infirmary. All is well! (ok, not really.)

 

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

 

RPX898 wasn’t Lantea by any stretch of the imagination. Its combination of a whiter than usual star, an odd mix of atmospheric gases and bacteria rich water resulted in a purple ocean, with patches of iridescent greens and pinks. Like most planets with Stargates, it could support human life, but the collective medical community aboard Atlantis had all agreed (for once) that keeping the shield up would be advisable. The majority of the population had not been exposed to ‘true’ alien worlds before, and it was deemed prudent.

 

It was good being planetside. The perpetual night of space messed with your internal clock and no matter how good the ambient lighting was in producing vitamin d and sunshine like effects, even a pale, milky star felt better than the cold, empty depths of space. RPX was on a shorter rotation to Earth, a mere 18.33 hour day, but the balconies had been packed with spectators for the first sunset and sunrise.

 

It was a little after sunrise now, the sky pinking from deep midnight blue to pale topaz and lilac. Atlantis was quiet, the alpha shift changing seats with gamma shift, people yawning on both sides, the air resplendent with silence.

 

All in all it was just a little too pastel and twee for one Rodney McKay, who felt the need for something a little more red and violent, as befitting his mood.

 

“But I do not understand the purpose of a tactical vest. It does not assist in the planning of tactics for an operation, nor in the facilitation of strategy or...”

 

“It’s bullet proof!” Rodney snarled, eyes fixed in front of him, refusing to visually acknowledge the presence behind him, hoping that maybe, MAYBE, he’d get the hint and stop talking.

 

“Then why is not called a bullet proof vest?”

 

“It is! Sometimes.”

 

Alas, the hint getting was not to be. Instead there were more questions.

 

“I do not und...”

 

McKay whirled around, hands clenched white knuckled on his own tactical vest, eyes raking the source of his annoyance with unrepentant ire, and strangled out a half shout, “It an all purpose utility item. Bullet proof, pockets for shit, places to hang stuff, it frees up the arms so that soldiers can focus on killing people, rather being human packhorses!”

 

“Ah, thank you. Why did you not say so initially...”

 

And that was part of the problem. It, he, was so damn polite. And sincere. And the way he stared at you, like he was seeing into your soul, because he probably was... because he was a frigging angel! Rodney bit his lip, and cursed silently hoping the rumour wasn’t true that the angel could read your mind, because if he could, Rodney was going to be smited any second now. Taking a deep, rational, trying to avoid a damn, er, darn lightning bolt, Rodney growled, “Because ... shut up! And go away!”

 

“Certainly.”

 

See, damn polite and understanding! It was infuriating. Sure, sure, he was go.... Rodney swallowed the impulse to blaspheme within earshot of a heavenly being. He was an angel and they were supposed to be perfect, but did he have to be perfect at asking questions too?

 

“You’re still following me,” Rodney snapped, fiddling with his P90, idly wondering if angels needed bullet proof vests actually and then quickly shoved that thought into the deep locker of ‘we are NOT thinking about it, definitely not thinking about shooting an angel.’

 

Castiel, bedecked in black tac vest, t-shirt and khaki BDU trousers and looking strangely odd without the perpetual trenchcoat, deadpanned in reply, “I am not. We are merely travelling in the same direction.”

 

It was like talking with Teal’c, Teyla and Ronon all rolled into one. Rodney briefly indulged in a mental blow by blow comparison of the four ‘aliens’ ranking them according to likeableness vs annoyance. The rather easy task was interrupted when Rodney registered what Castiel had said. Rodney stopped, turned on the angel and exclaimed, ““No, no, I am going to the Gate Room because I am going on a mission shortly, YOU...”

 

“Are also going on a mission,” Castiel replied, piercing blue eyes, well, piercing right through you, like he could see your soul, which he probably could.

 

Resisting the urge to cover the grubby parts of his soul, mostly because he had no idea where they were, McKay stammered, “What? Why?”

 

Like it was completely reasonable and obvious, Castiel added, “I believe General O’Neill explained this is great detail at the briefing meeting earlier this week, which if I recall you attended. Were you not paying attention?”

 

Affronted, naturally – who wouldn’t be, McKay waved the implication off and muttered, “Yes, yes, of course I was! Uh.... I can’t always be... I had more important things on my mind!”

 

Castiel raised a very Teal’c eyebrow and Rodney bristled at the scepticism, especially when the angel said, “More important than the revised plan to evict the Ori from Earth and their eventual destruction?”

 

“Yes! No... ah... what?”

 

Rodney rapidly scanned his memory and tried to figure out what on Earth Castiel was talking about. He knew the mission was about the Ori, but honestly the specifics were escaping him. Not that he could be blamed, afterall, he was responsible for the entire engineering division and the massive challenges facing a fleet of ships without spare parts, limited power and an even more limited skill set. Surviving the Ori would take more than just military operations, there had to be a population left to save.

 

“I believe Dean Winchester was wrong.”

 

Distracted from his musings, and resuming the walk to the Gate room, Rodney stopped thinking about the work load awaiting his return, the impossible solutions he had to find, and snapped, “Of course he’s wrong, he always wrong. Just what is he wrong about this time?”

 

Unperturbed by the tone and irate glance, Castiel matched Rodney’s pace, now walking beside him. Rodney vaguely wondered where the wings were. “You being an expert on many subjects and aspects of life on Atlantis.”

 

Rodney didn’t know whether to be insulted or surprised, and surprisingly, surprise won, “What? Of course I am! ... he said that, really?” Dean Winchester saying anything good about Rodney McKay was a miracle in and of itself. So considering the appearance of an angel on Atlantis, perhaps Rodney shouldn’t be so surprised, but he was.

 

Castiel wasn’t done though, “Indeed, I believe he referred to you as a knowitall. However judging by our conversation so far, I fail to see evidence of this...”

 

This Rodney could not let slide, and as they entered the Gate room, turning the corner, he sputtered, “Oh, oh... one thing! One thing I didn’t pay attention to and suddenly...”

 

“Playing Angry Birds again, Rodney?”

 

“What? No!”

 

In true form, Sheppard appeared when you least expected, or wanted him. That was a little unfair of an assessment, sure, but Rodney wasn’t in the mood to be fair. Already standing in the Gate Room, John Sheppard’s smirk said it all. Certainty that he was right – he was. Amusement that he was right – bastard. And delight in catching Rodney out – again. Revenge would be sweet! Before Rodney would retort, and defend his honour, Sheppard laughed, “I saw Zelenka’s last high score on the server board – with the screen cap to prove it.”

 

Rodney sucked in a lungful of air, squinting a little at the bright sunlight in the Gate room and calmly, rationally squeaked, “That manipulative son of gun Czech is more than capable of photoshopping a high score!”

 

“So you were playing Angry Birds?” Sheppard grinned, slouching a little, hands rested casually on his P90, and shared an amused glance with Castiel, who did not return it.

 

“NO! I was... planning this week’s shift roster. And determining priority repairs, and allocating someone, Anyone, to fix the power couplings on the Apollo! Some of us have actual work beside walking around looking like a bedraggled cat!” Rodney fumed angrily, daring John to contradict him.

 

“Ah.” Was all John said, his smirk contradicting the acceptance, entirely. Rodney huffed, and growled under his breath. Castiel watched them both, bemused by the puny mortals no doubt. Sheppard smiled.

 

For four beautiful, blissful seconds of silence reigned, Rodney breathed unmolested and unteased and then Castiel, with excellent timing, asked, “Tell me Dr McKay, why are you interested in playing with angry birds, surely they are not ideal play things....”

 

“Enough! Go Away! Sheppard!”

 

And Sheppard, finally took pity on him and gently guided Castiel away, mentioning something about finalising the plan for the various missions about to head out. Rodney tried to calm down, centre himself, because it didn’t pay going on an away mission worked up. He listed off prime numbers quietly and found balance in the math.

 

Just as he was feeling more settled and ready to face whatever dangers the galaxy had in store for them, half heard footfalls startled him and he heard a deep voice rumble, “You awake, McKay or sleeping through another meeting?”

 

Whirling on Ronon, because of course it was Ronon, McKay snarled, “Don’t start, Conan. Just don’t start!”

 

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

 

The makeshift tac room was quiet, almost everybody already on their way to the Gate Room. Dean though, was taking his time. He was hoping to either catch Sam, or avoid him – whichever came easiest.

 

Little brother wasn’t happy. Not by far.

 

Bobby wasn’t either, but at least Singer had a soft spot for Dean large enough to absorb any slight or hurt, so he was still talking to him. Sam though, Sam expected a hell of a lot more from Dean and was not prepared to take a back seat – so now he was giving Dean the silent treatment.

 

It was childish, juvenile, even a little mean, but honestly, Dean preferred it to the alternative.

 

General O’Neill wasn’t entirely happy with him either, either of them. No scratch that, all of them. None of their less than detailed explanations had sat well with the General, but hell if Dean was going to bare his heart and soul to a room full of military officers and egg heads. Too much of their own lives were wrapped up the drama of the Apocalypse and well... they could wait till Hell froze over for all he cared. Besides, the apocalypse had been averted by the simple fact of a different sort, their sort, of apocalypse taking place. Alien invasion. It still pissed Dean off no end. Aliens!

 

So Sam wasn’t happy, the Brass weren’t happy and Castiel was following him around like a lost little dog in a trenchcoat. Everyone else... kinda didn’t know what to do with him. Sure, his team of techies were acting like nothing had changed, but most other folk kept giving him this look. It was a look of ‘I’m both terrified and relieved you’re here.’ Dean was used to it, in small doses, after saving someone from a ghost or fugly, but all day, every day was getting to be a bit much, all because he knew an Angel and killed the Orisi. Well...

 

“Dean.”

 

Ah, Sam had gotten tired of his own silent treatment. Direct approach time, again.

 

“Hey, Sam.”

 

Dean turned, the tac vest rattling as he did so, and shoved his 911 into the front holster for easy access. He was armed for bear, and that included all the right sigils memorised for Prior corralling. The Ori were going to be pissed. A lot of Priors and folks out in the Milkway had stopped believing but the Ark hadn’t reached everyone, yet... so, yeah. The Ori might be out for his blood.

 

Sam was impersonating an irate, immovable statue. He was blocking the exit, silhouetted against the doorway, sunlight streaming in around him. It was nice seeing the sun, a sun, for longer than the time it took to walk to and from the Gate. Sam was kitted out as well, and Dean noted that he’d done so somewhere else, away from him, so Dean swallowed the urge to check if Sammy had everything he needed.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Dean nodded, yes, yes they did. Sam though, Sam was being a right little bitch about everything. “Sure, Sam. Go ahead, start yakking.”

 

Shaggy head shake of denial, and Sam hissed, “No, you need to start talking, Dean. I’m not letting you go out there without telling me what in the hell is going on!”

 

Dean stared his brother down, trying to settle the rising tide of emotion and contemplated playing the fool, pretending Sam was talking about the mission. But in reality, Sam was. He was talking about everything, and specifically about Dean and the stuff he left out, about Hell, Castiel, what he knew about Heaven’s battle, yadda, yadda, yadda. “We’re going looking for Merlin, Sam. That’s whats going on.” Fool it was then.

 

“No, Dean. With you!”

 

Oh, he was getting the angry eyes, and furrowed brow. Sam was pissed. Still. Well, Dean was pissed too.

 

“Sure thing, Sam. Just as soon as you tell me about Ruby and your dirty little secret.” Impressed that he’d managed that with relative calm and poise, Dean waited. Sam paled, as usual, and snapped, “Nothing! I told you, there was nothing going on! She was just ... helping me access my you know....”

 

Snorting, and closing the distance to Sam, eager to get in his face, his anger rising fast, Dean growled, “Helping you access your demon powers, right, Sam?”

 

“Ah...”

 

“Liar.”

 

A long drawnout moment of tension stretched between them as Sam worried his lip and tried to ‘will’ Dean to talk. Dean could feel the plea in the air, the plea for big brother to cave, give in to little brother and tell him everything without the corresponding quid pro quo. No way in hell was Dean giving in, not again.

 

Something steely and dark settled in Sam’s expression as the moments ticked by and he snapped, “Well you obviously know something... did Castiel tell you?”

 

“Tell me what, Sam? Huh? What did Castiel tell me?” Dean jabbed a finger into Sam’s sternum and shoved, suddenly very willing to push Sam as far as he could. Sam stepped back with the motion, face hard and angry. “I don’t know, Dean. What did he tell you? What’s going on with you two? With you? Why won’t you tell me?”

 

The last part was all little brother whine, petulant and hurt that he was being denied what he always got, everything. Sick and tired of this game, of the same damn conversation, Dean shoved Sam aside and stalked out of the room.

 

A sasquatch hand grabbed his and stopped him, and Dean nearly whirled and clocked Sam one, but he caught himself in time, fist clenched but no punch thrown. His intent though must have been clear on his face, as Sam dropped his hand and settled into a defensive stance, automatically. Realising no punch was forthcoming, Sam exclaimed, “What, Dean? Why are you so angry? What did I do?”

 

It was close, Sam nearly caught him out. Dean had the thought to speech half formed when he caught himself. Instead he snarled,“Why am I angry, Sam? Because I went to Hell!”

 

As expected, Sam recoiled. God love his brother, but it was easy to push his buttons at times and Hell was a pretty damn big button. Dean watched as Sam tried to find something to say that wasn’t dismissive or unfeeling, that wasn’t ‘dude, you were in Hell, what did you expect.’

 

“It can’t just be Hell, Dean... its... more ah, recent...” Sam offered instead, trying to sound reasonable and not frustrated. Dean shook his head, the anger rising again, “Why not, Sam? Why can’t it be Hell? Why can’t I be a messed up shithead because of Hell?”

 

“Because you were fine! You said you didn’t remember!”

 

“I lied!”

 

And there it was. The lies between them. Those four months in Hell and with Ruby and every day thereafter.

 

Sam was torn, visibly uncertain as to what to do. Dean knew exactly what was flashing through Sam’s mind. He was weighing the odds, laying it all out and trying to plot a way through the minefield that got him what he wanted without giving up too much, or anything. He was reviewing the last six months, trying to pin point when their relationship went pearshaped, and Dean knew, knew with every fibre of his being, that Sam had no clue. The first sign he had that anything was wrong with Dean other than being an overworked refugee was when Castiel fell out of the sky and Dean flat out told him to stuff his questions. And that, more than anything, probably bothered the hell out of Sam. That Dean had fooled him for so long.

 

“Dean, please...”

 

Ah, little brother was back. When in doubt, bring out the big guns that were tried and true. Sam was projecting little boy lost, but Dean could see the angry man underneath, the frustrated, irate man who wanted to shake some answers out of his brother.

 

Dean had guns of his own, and he was angry enough not to regret using them.

 

“I went to Hell for you, Sam.” Cold, icy, angry. Sam matched him with fire, not wanting Dean to remind him, “I didn’t ask you too, I didn’t want it... I... you chose... you can’t keep throwing that at me!”

 

Relentless, like Sam hadn’t even spoken, Dean stared at his brother, his goddamn little brother, and said, “And while I was in Hell, you were screwing around with a demon, Sam.”

 

“I...”

 

Sam cut himself off, no doubt hoping Dean had caved and was going to spill the proverbial beans. But Dean was out for blood, felt like baying like a hell hound, his heart was racing so hard. “I gave up everything for you, Sam and you threw it back in my face!” The ‘everything’ echoed through the quiet halls of Atlantis, a city a million light years from home, but right now, all that mattered was Sam. Who looked pained, but stubborn. “Not when you moved on, not when you shacked up with some skank, Sam.” Sam squired a little, but remained resolute. Dean snarled, “But when you started keeping secrets, started lying to my face... then you damn well wiped your feet on my grave.”

 

Sam’s knuckles were bloodless, white pinpricks on red hands.

 

“Do you regret going to Hell... for me?”

 

The burn of anger and sorrow was complete and overwhelming and Dean shoved it aside, refused to drown in the misery of it all. Hefting his P90, face set and fixed, Dean ran weary eyes over his Sam and said, “No, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t come back.”

 

He left Sam standing in the doorway, face turned away, hands loose and helpless. Maybe the Ori would find him today. Maybe he’d let them.

 

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

 

Jack was a silver lining type of guy. Sure, he saw the worst in people, especially enemies and weird alien cultures, and it might have been a massive bone of contention between him and Daniel over the years, but at heart he was just a suspicious bastard. That however did not mean that he couldn’t find the flip side of a bad situation. And one of the flip sides to this whole damn mess was – he’d lost a crap load of weight.

 

Life at the top was good, a little too good and Jack had been resigned (happily) to a wider waist and pant size, but the benefits of a restricted rationed diet and now a leaner, meaner frame could not be denied.

 

The down side to this flip side? None of his clothes fit. And short of going to Walter’s team of Logistics people and looking through the spare clothing bin (limited in every way possible) he was stuck looking like a boat in full sail some days. Fingering his well worn, getting smooth, BDU top, Jack sighed and wondered if the Lucien Alliance would be interested in trading clothe and material for broken parts and useless tech. Probably not.

 

“Sir?”

 

Jack looked up, and Chuck said, “The teams are almost ready to go. Just waiting on a few stragglers.”

 

“Daniel and Vala?” Jack guessed, and Chuck nodded. “And a few others, sir.”

 

Jack waved it off and muttered, “Let me know when they’re either here or when I have send out the dogs.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The Plan had morphed into ‘The Plans’ – plural. No A and B. Just Chicken and Egg. Even if the Senior Officers, his own XO team had vetoed calling the plans Chicken and Egg, Jack still thought of them as such. Plan Chicken was simple. Plan and execute a direct strike to Earth and expose the entire Prior population to the Ark. Plan Egg was a little more complicated, but only just. Search the entire galaxy for Merlin’s lab, find a device designed to kill the Ori on a higher plane and turn it on. And then send it to the Ori galaxy. Easy peasy.

 

Today was the initial stages of Plan Egg – find Merlin’s lab. Plan Chicken was taking a little longer as the Fleet needed to be in tip top shape to tackle the Ori and the last go around with the Toilet Bowls had left them badly damaged.

 

Another silver lining though – Earth was doing better than them, in some ways. Castiel, once he was able to sit up long enough to talk for a few hours, had shed a little light on the situation back home. After the initial attack and the massive offensive to pound Earth into submission, the Ori had taken a step back. Set up a few governments, sent out missionaries, rebuilt a few cities in super fast time. New Washington was apparently quite beautiful. And the crux was, as long as you kept your head down and didn’t resist and at least pretended to listen to the Priors, you were fine. Life went on.

 

The general air of relief in the room and the city after that news had been tangible. However, no one but Castiel expressed surprise at the fact that some folk still resisted, took affront at the invasion and made life hard for the Ori. The human resistance movement were clever and resourceful and Castiel had expressed regret at not utilising them as Dean had suggested all those months ago. Because while the Ori’s attack on humanity had stopped, bar the odd public execution, the Ori had turned their full attention on their rivals. The old Gods and Heaven. Somewhat belatedly the Ori realised Hell needed to be taken care off too, but by then the demons had already joined the battle.

 

Jack found it both strangely disturbing and incredible that for most people on Earth, and even here on Atlantis, faith was no longer a requirement. The old religions had not sat back and accepted a usurper. They fought back. Evidence and proof had replaced faith.

 

Where it all became murky however was what role the Winchester brothers played in the whole thing. Castiel refused to disclose why he’d been visiting Dean regularly and updating him on Earth. Dean Winchester was a veritable locked box of nondisclosure. Sam had been more forthcoming, mentioning the ‘family business’ and explaining demons and Elder Gods etc. Daniel and Sam had had more than one heated debate about the ‘old’ Gods, but it was more arguing for argument sake than anything else.

 

Dean’s refusal to disclose more was frustrating – and Jack was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one annoyed with the guy, but Winchester had made a good point. The information they had was more than enough to implement the Plans. Castiel would enlist the help of those angels still on Earth for Plan Chicken. Castiel himself was helping out on Plan Egg.

 

Things were looking up. Things were also very tight, stressed and worried, but the knowledge that their families might actually be ok, that the remnants of Heaven’s Host were on their side did a lot for morale. And the tit bit that Castiel held the Keys to Heaven was even more interesting.

 

“Sir?”

 

Chuck was nodding that everyone was ready. Jack dragged his feet off the console and straightened. Time to inspire the masses. The assembled crowd in front of the Gate wasn’t as big as the usual food expeditions, but it contained a lot of their top personnel. Staring at their collective faces, Jack suddenly missed Elizabeth Weir quite keenly. She had had such a knack for speaking to people, winning them over.

 

Dean Winchester and Castiel were off to one side, a visible ‘bubble’ around them as people kept their distance. Sam was on the opposite side of the room, quietly talking to Daniel. The distance, both physical and emotional between the brothers was worrying, but Jack was a big believer of letting people work things out themselves.

 

“Right folks!” All eyes turned to him and Jack clapped his hands. “Everyone know what to do?” Nods and ‘yes, sirs’ all around. “McKay?”

 

Rodney McKay blushed bright red but he nodded sharply. “Ok, let’s play it safe and careful, people. I know it’s hard for most of you, especially Mitchell, but I don’t want heroics, dramatic rescues or alliances with strange tribes.” A soft murmur of laughter answered him, but there was general agreement. Mitchell mock saluted. Jack continued, “Play it cool, kids. The Ori might not know what our game plan is, so let’s not give them a heads up.”

 

He waved at Chuck, who dialled the first address. Over the sound of the gate dialing, Jack shouted, “No one gets left behind, got it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” was the collective shout.

 

Lorne’s team was first and Sam Winchester was with him. Neither Winchester made eye contact as the wormhole engaged and Lorne stepped through. Sheppard was next, with Dean and as their address dialled, Castiel made his way over to Mitchell.

 

Last, Mitchell’s team with Castiel left and then the floor was empty, all teams gone. Turning, Jack walked over to the balcony and stared out at the purple ocean. Life is always complicated and over analysed, but sometimes, the smallest, seemly insignificant things make the biggest difference.

 

Earth knew about Atlantis and the Fleet. They knew that the fight, as it were, was still going on. They knew, and they were fighting in their own way. Smart, organised resistance. Castiel had been more than a one way messenger, he’d taken intel back. Jack smiled, and rubbed his hand over his face, and messed up his overly long gray hair. Sam and Dean Winchester were hunters. People who lived on the fringe of society and fought the monster under your bed. Whatever else they weren’t saying, it mattered that they were good people, who saved others from the things in the dark no one else knew about.

 

And they weren’t alone. There were others. Hunters.

 

Jack figured Castiel was a pretty dry individual, as one would expect from an Angel. But his smile, bright and wide, when he told everyone, including Dean it seemed, that hunters were leading, and organising the resistance on Earth... well... it had been magnificent. Hunters, the extremist nut jobs in the woods, the nerds, the housewife at home.

 

Atlantis was not alone. Humanity was not gone. And they had a Plan.

 

Jack stepped out into the sunlight, and smiled.

 

 

 

*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1*sga*spn*sg1

 

Fin!!! (and I mean it)

 

 

 

Authors Note: Ok, maybe not. But this rollercoaster ride of a fic is done J Here are my reason why. I wrote chapter one as a one shot, I really did. I had no idea where to take this story after chapter one and I don’t like not knowing the end before I start a fic. So, writing these updates has involved some deep thought at times. I know the story isn’t finished and I know there is plenty to fill out.

 

The good news is, I plan to flesh this out. Seraphim XII and a few others have expressed interest in a series of ficlets, sort of ‘scenes from a hat’ or the missing scenes. So that’s my plan. I will continue this as a separate story, in a series of smaller one shots of ‘missing scenes’. XII has given me list of scenes to write, but if there is something you’d like to ‘see’ or read about, drop me a line and I’ll add it to the list.

 

In the interim however, I’ll think about how I want to resolve this AU (if I want to resolve this AU). I have three separate AUs of Dean on Atlantis – I’m getting confused, so I’ll tackle them one at a time (if I can). \o/

 

Thank you, dear readers, for your enthusiasm. I owe a lot of people prompt fics and sequels to other stories, but when the muse is hot and the plot bunnies are planning a revolution, one must write what one must. Thank you for all of your enthusiasm and support, this is truly your fic as without your demands I would have left it at chapter one. (I don’t know what that says about my willpower or need for gratification, but it was fun!)

 

Thank you.

 

 

 

Coming Soon: The Otherside of Tomorrow (missing scenes from Here Tomorrow Gone Today)

 

 

 

 

 

*fans self, that sounds so pretentious! Heeeee....*


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